


Orc in Ithilien

by draylon



Series: Captain of Mordor [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-01
Updated: 2006-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 79,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4054171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draylon/pseuds/draylon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to 'Captain of Mordor'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At his majesty's pleasure.

 

“Give over, your Highness,” Shagrat panted.  “You – you can’t mean to do that to me here.  You know I won’t be able - oh.  Oh!   Don’t! Stop doing that –“

“I can’t have caught you quite right,” Faramir, Prince of Ithilien murmured, halting the rhythmic, stroking movements to which Shagrat claimed he was objecting.  At the same time he tightened his hold around various salient portions of Shagrat’s anatomy.  Shagrat, who was a large Uruk-hai Orc could often be quite a handful – actually, in surprisingly more ways than one: the Prince, for example, was certainly finding that he had both his hands full at that particular moment.  He was gratified to note Shagrat, for all his protests, shoving himself nearer, leaning in closer, for more of his touch.  Slowly he began to move his hands again, caressing languorously in a way that he calculated would be quite irresistible to Shagrat and for a few seconds the Orc moved with him, pressing in and pulling back, grinding his hips against him.

“I didn’t catch you right,” the Prince repeated.  “Did you say ‘don’t stop doing that’?

“No!” Shagrat protested, wrenching himself sideways, with a recklessness borne of desperation (given the nature of the hold his companion had on him) as he tried ineffectually to retreat.  The Prince followed after and soon had him cornered again, up against one of the bookcases in his study. Shagrat shot him a desperate, wild-eyed look, which the Prince summarily ignored, while his hands returned to the Uruk’s groin.  He carried on with what he had been doing.

“That’s not – it isn’t what I said,” Shagrat gasped eventually, collecting himself after another long moment.  “I meant, someone might see!  What if someone catches you fumbling about in here with – oh.  Oh! Faramir, no!  What if – what if someone –“

Shagrat tried half-heartedly, once again, to pull himself away.  Evidently however he had already passed his point of no return, as Faramir intended he would, for at that point his body began to spasm uncontrollably in the Prince’s persuasive grip.  The Orc’s head dropped forwards and his teeth closed round Faramir’s shoulder as he tried to stifle an ecstatic, shuddering groan.

“’What if someone comes,’” Faramir finished for him.  He felt the sudden, disconcerting pressure of Shagrat’s fangs pricking at him through the fabric of his tunic when he said it, as with a convulsive movement the muscles in the Uruk’s jaw clenched then unclenched rapidly.  More or less though, he trusted that Shagrat would not bite him.  It was quite unlikely that Shagrat would deliberately set out to injure him. Not seriously, at any rate, he thought.

Shagrat sagged against him, weak in the knees, cursing at him fluently in Orcish.  During the weeks since Faramir had acquired him, from a travelling circus in which Shagrat had been a most reluctant exhibit, the Orc’s health had improved immensely.  But Shagrat had been more dead than alive when Faramir found him and his physical condition was still far from being satisfactory.  He was lame in one leg and had lost an eye and there were other, more serious injuries that Faramir suspected, but which Shagrat invariably downplayed or insisted on dismissing entirely in a blasé, utterly infuriating manner.

Faramir helped him to sit down, suddenly feeling contrite.  Shagrat kept his hold on him and obligingly, Faramir knelt in front of him, while the Orc moved his head, to butt and nuzzle at the base of Faramir’s neck.  The sharp points of Shagrat’s teeth grazed against his flesh, scratching slightly.  Faramir hoped they would not leave a permanent mark.  He felt a slight frisson at the thought of this; fear, mixed with excitement, as he usually did when dealing with Shagrat for the Orc, no matter how well-intentioned, was equipped neither physically or by temperament to conduct himself with any degree of forbearance or restraint.

“This can’t go on, your Highness,” Shagrat muttered in a muffled voice.  “You - forever after me like this.  Chasing me about willy-nilly, like I’m one of your maidservants or some such.  It’s not right, you know.  Anybody could find us here, any moment.”

“And then what,” Faramir asked him.

“Anyone could come in and then what would they think.  They’d see you with me, wouldn’t they.  They’d see!”

Shagrat’s extreme modesty in this respect had been quite unexpected, but had turned out to be a great source of harmless delight for Faramir.  The Orc, it seemed, had not the slightest ability to resist the even vaguest of approaches directed at him by the Prince; he could not help himself from responding to Faramir’s overtures, but at the same time retained – or had somehow acquired – a keen sense of decorum, and suffered pointless agonies of guilt and embarrassment over what he obviously considered to be the awful impropriety of their situation.  Persuading the now, astonishingly demure Shagrat to overstep his own limits of good behaviour had quickly become one of the Prince’s favourite recreational pursuits – although in truth, it was never a particularly challenging pastime.  But as the Orc seemed genuinely agitated this time, Faramir tried his best to ally his anxieties.

“I think,” Faramir said, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the smile out of his voice, “that the household staff - those of whom have chosen to remain with us - have by now accepted for the most part that anything that may be going on between us is….going to be going on, regardless of what they, or anybody else, thinks.  It really isn’t anyone’s concern but yours and mine, since I’ve made it clear that when I’m with you I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances. So you must understand, Shagrat, that there isn’t any chance of anyone - seeing.”

Shagrat sighed mightily, his great, rough paws dropping down into Faramir’s lap as he lifted his chin up to rest on Faramir’s shoulder.  “Well then, your Highness,” he said, growling softly into Faramir’s ear, “I suppose in that case Goldilocks, there wouldn’t be so much harm in us carrying on with what you’ve started then, would there?  Not just this once, eh?” His hands began to rove back and forth, stroking up under Faramir’s shirt and at pulling the waistband of his breeches.  “Seeing as you’re sure everyone’s clear they’re to keep out our way, for a bit…”

The Orc’s voice tailed off abruptly at that.  With a hurried movement his body tensed and he jerked himself backwards.  Faramir gave him a bemused look.  It was not at all like Shagrat to stop short in the middle of things like this but the Orc, his expression quite unreadable, was staring with awful intensity at a point some distance behind the Prince’s back.

Shagrat swallowed, and licked his lips. “She clear about that too, is she?” he said.

Faramir turned to follow the Orc’s gaze.  The main door to the study had quietly been opened and when the Prince looked over his shoulder and saw who was standing, framed in the doorway, his mind went blank from panic.

“This may not be what it appears to look like,” Faramir said, feeling his throat beginning to close up with fright.

“There hasn’t been any funny business,” Shagrat heard himself blurting out, almost simultaneously.

Neither of them received much in the way of a reply however, for the incomer, the Lady Eowyn - Faramir’s wife – was much too shocked and horrified by the tableau currently being played out in front of her to even be able to speak.

 

* * *

 


	2. Trouble and strife.

 

It was worse – it was far, far worse, than Eowyn could have imagined.  

Her husband was stooped down on the floor, kneeling unashamedly before the beast.  Faramir’s fair hair was ruffled and his tunic, shirt-front and - most shockingly of all - his breeches were open, for he had obviously been disporting himself brazenly – in broad daylight! - with – with the fell creature.  The pair of them were in a wretched, disgusting, state of dishabille.  Though Faramir’s face had blanched, taking on a dreadful look of dismay the instant he’d seen her, she knew she had not imagined the rosy, excited flush that had been covering his face and upper chest, or the highlights of merriment that had been sparking in his eyes.  He looked as happy as Eowyn had ever seen him - and even through the anger that suffused her she felt a queer, heart-sick pang at the thought of it.

And as for the other – the monster!  Until the moment she’d first seen for herself, she realised that even after all she had heard she hadn’t quite believed the awful rumours that had reached her.  But it was every bit as bad as they had said.  A black-hearted Orc!  Neither hale nor whole, the beast looked sick and was riddled with corruption.  

White-faced with rage, breathless with indignation, Eowyn turned on her heel, rushing to get away from them and slammed the door behind her.

It was an incomprehensible situation!  Her husband had always been correct, courteous and considerate in their marital relations, conducting himself with the utmost tact and delicacy.  With, if anything a little _too much_ tact and delicacy, Eowyn found herself thinking - though she squashed that treacherous thought almost as soon as it occurred to her.  But there had never been the slightest suggestion that Faramir’s inclinations lay in anything other than the accepted conjugal association between husband and wife.   

Even then, if he had chosen a worthier partner for himself, she could easily have turned a blind eye, for what he was doing was not unheard of in Minas Tirith – far from it.  Although it was a standing joke among the Rohirrim was that the Men of Gondor had invented sport of that type, even in the furthest backwater provinces of Rohan it would be rare to find a horse-lord who had not enjoyed at least one tumble with a stable-lad at some point during his youth.  Those kinds of associations, whether between man and man or woman and woman were not especially frowned upon, and indeed with an Elvish Queen and coterie of Elves in Minas Tirith, such relations had become rather fashionable - quite the done thing.  More than a few of Eowyn’s acquaintances at Court had a partner of the same sex; several of them had more than one.  But nobody she had ever heard of – no one in living memory - had ever taken an Orc as their lover before.

Having left the pair of them - her husband and his vile companion, Eowyn, still shaking with agitation, paused to collect herself in the sitting room that adjoined Faramir’s study.  A moment later her husband followed after.  Red in the face, he smiled weakly at her.

“It’s a pleasure to see you Eowyn,” he said, “though - as you must see - I had not thought to expect you.  Have you had a pleasant journey?  What brings you back to Ithilien so soon?”

That he could bring himself to speak such pleasantries to her – chatting of everyday matters and affecting such a normal tone - made  Eowyn seethe with rage.   How dared he behave as if nothing out the ordinary or untoward had happened?  And after the scene she had just been forced to witness!

“What brings me here?” she replied, “what else but news of your infamous conduct, my husband?   Your friends at Court have done their best to suppress it, but it must soon be the scandal of the kingdom!  I have had it whispered low to me, as a thing no decent person would speak of aloud!”

Faramir thought that was overstating the case - and said so.  “I can understand that people might initially be a little –“ he paused, evidently searching for the right word - “squeamish,” he continued, “but there’s no reason for that.  Really, I can’t see it as anything other than a matter between Shagrat and myself.  It shouldn’t concern anyone else, because –“

“Squeamish!” Eowyn shouted.  “Squeamishness, you call it!  That everyone knows you’re slaking your lusts in such a low, bestial fashion!  ‘Shagrat!’  Is that what you’ve named him?  And why not – it suits him well enough!  What you’re doing is but a small step from that – worse, perhaps, since that foul creature shares and abets you in your perversion!”  Eowyn turned away, white-faced and shaking, feeling horrified. She had never intended to say so much.

With an edge in his voice Faramir asked whether the problem, as Eowyn saw it, was that he was slaking his lusts in a supposedly low and bestial fashion - or that everybody knew about it.  His wife did not deign to answer.

“As I was saying,” Faramir continued reasonably enough, “it’s nobody’s business but his and mine.  We’re all adults, aren’t we?  He is single.  I am unattached.  You remember of course that I am unattached do you not, Eowyn?”

“You’ve done this as a ploy?  As a trick to bring me back and bind me to your side?”

Faramir shook his head sadly.  “No Eowyn, I had not thought - nor would I think of doing such a thing.  But surely you can agree that since you and I have separated this is a matter of concern for myself and the Uruk, only?”

“Regardless of that,” Eowyn insisted, “no right-thinking person could ever accept it!”  

Faramir did not immediately reply and pushing what she perceived as being her advantage his wife continued, making many valid and reasonable arguments against the folly of forging alliances so completely with dark, corrupted creatures such as Uruk-hai from Mordor.  The more the Lady talked however, the more obstinate Faramir seemed to become.  When, at last, his wife came to a halt he replied to her quite calmly.

“We’re in love,” Faramir said.  He spoke quietly enough but there was a slightly crazed and antic gleam in his eye.

Eowyn snorted with deep disgust.  “Love, you say.  What could a creature like that know of such emotion?  I would have never taken you for a fool, Faramir.  Have you become so eager to receive ‘love,’ so despairing of its receipt through any normal channel that now you seek it, abjecting your person in the most hateful manner in the pursuit of it where it cannot possibly exist?  You cannot help but realise how you are deceiving yourself.”

“We’re in love,” Faramir repeated, through his teeth.  “We’ve decided we want to be together always.”

Eowyn gazed at him in wonderment, as if seeing him for the first time.  How, she wondered, could she have failed to notice before this moment that her husband was running quite demented?  But really was it any surprise - for there was madness enough in that line: for was it not said that Faramir’s older brother Boromir had been consumed past all sanity with greed and lust for the One Ring?  And considering the stock from which both brothers had come: their Father’s conduct as Steward of Gondor was notorious.  He had himself perished in madness at the end of the war, his death the result of a shameful bid to end not only his own life, but that of Faramir, his younger son.  

The despair that had come upon Denethor – Faramir never spoke of it, but with a feeling of dread Eowyn recalled what she had heard: that it had begun with the death of the old Steward’s wife.

Eowyn swallowed down her anger as a terrible thought occurred to her; that she herself must have played some role in causing Faramir’s present derangement.  It was her desertion that had left Faramir unhinged, allowing a filthy Orc to make easy prey of him.  Her poor, poor husband!  He was to be pitied, but he was not to be blamed for any of this.

With an effort Eowyn composed her features, suppressing the disgust that she now must feel whenever she considered her husband’s recent conduct.  

“Come, Faramir,” she said soothingly, reaching for his hands.  “Let us not fight.”

* * *

 

 


	3. Orc in Ithilien.

 

Shagrat stared out of the window and down into the palace grounds.  It was so foggy outside that night seemed to be falling early.  Darkness was already creeping out from under the branches of the trees and settling through the chilly, greyish dusk.  A dank tendril of mist skeined its way in through the open casement and past the unclosed window-drapes, before evaporating in the comparative warmth of Shagrat’s bed-chamber.

The royal estate in Ithilien was, in the Orc’s opinion, sited in a most dreadfully forsaken spot.

The estate was comprised of a narrowish tongue of land, east of the river and west of the Mountains of Shadow, sandwiched between the two in an unfortunate placement that meant it was subject to a cloying miasma of heat, damp and humidity for most months of the year.  There were altogether too many trees, and they encouraged an intolerable diversity of wildlife – the night-time exuberances of which, from the nearby summer swamps, were almost too noisy to be borne.

There was something Shagrat was finding to be even worse than the incessant frog and cricket noises, however.  Now that the seasons were changing and autumn was on its way, the air was filled with the wailing cries of water-birds, which called mournfully all through the day and night as they passed over on their way to the great river delta in the south.  Their haunted, eerie notes, so similar to the lamenting cries of forsaken prisoners would rouse Shagrat from the depths of sleep and send him down paths of dark recollection, scaring up dismal memories that his Orcish mind would sooner forget.  And it was growing cold.  There was such a chilly dampness to the place now that in the evenings and the mornings Shagrat fancied he could feel it in the insides of his bones.

Just Goldilocks’ luck to get landed with such a second-rate billet, Shagrat thought to himself.  Story of the poor bleeder’s life, really; he’d never been exactly what you’d call a fortunate son.  Second best at everything right from the outset; everybody’s stand-in choice, perennial winner of life’s consolation prize.  And as for matters of the heart, he’d made some truly dreadful choices there, too – but with that the Orc sighed mightily and shook his head, being unwilling under present circumstances to keep pursuing that particular line of thought.

It was time to light the lamps indoors but Shagrat, ordinarily, would not have bothered about that.  He didn’t trouble himself about that sort of thing because usually at about this time Faramir would turn up at his rooms for a visit.  He’d arrive under the pretext of making sure the lamps were lit, or that the fire was banked.  He would find some general excuse to sit with Shagrat for the rest of the evening and then more often than not he’d stay with him, all through the night.  It was a comfortable charade that had been replayed every evening without fail since he first began travelling with the Prince.  The old Orc had resolved to try not to wonder what – if anything – all this might have meant.  

The first time it happened was on the day that Faramir acquired Shagrat after finding him in the hands of the owner of an itinerant travelling circus, and the Orc knew then - or thought he knew - exactly what Goldilocks wanted from him.  What else but sex - for the time had come, he’d wearily surmised, for him to sing for his supper.  Given previous events between them and as far as he could tell, sex was the foundation of the only real kind of relationship that he and Goldilocks had ever had between them.  Other than that there was nothing else Shagrat could think of that would explain Faramir’s interest in him.  The Orc was not a particularly fine-looking fellow – quite the reverse if truth be told - and moreover at time of their meeting he had been in an especially ruinous physical state.  The long months of ill-treatment that Shagrat had endured at the hands of the travelling showmen had weakened him and the hours spent travelling with Faramir on horseback had worsened those effects, leaving Shagrat so sore and exhausted in body and spirits that at that point, if push came to shove, he doubted whether he’d have been able to raise even so much as a smile. In Shagrat’s experience however those sorts of details had never deterred any previous sexual partner of his  in the past and so he’d tiredly prepared, if not to simply lie back and think of Mordor exactly, then at least to feign every appearance of enjoyment - in a royal command performance, as one might call it.

Quite frankly he’d expected to be buggered senseless whether he wanted it or not and in anticipation of this had begun to prepare himself as best he could.  Shagrat hadn’t realised how much his shoulders had hunched and his hands had shaken as he made himself ready, or how dejected he’d looked - but Faramir, who had planned nothing more than to check on the well-being of his companion, noted it all too clearly.  It was a measure of the changes that had been forced on the Uruk and Faramir had been taken aback, thoroughly shocked, to see how meekly and with so little attempt at protest he had prepared to serve himself up for further abuse.  At that moment, unbeknownst to Shagrat, Faramir had resolved to devote the bulk of his free time for the foreseeable future to caring for and cosseting the Orc.

But ever since Faramir’s return to Ithilien with Shagrat in tow the royal household had been severely under-staffed, because the arrival of a former servant of Mordor as a permanent houseguest had provoked an immediate, mass staff walkout.  Even those few attendants who had found themselves able to tolerate the Uruk’s presence in principle had refused to have any kind of practical dealings with him.  It had fallen, then, to Faramir to tend to Shagrat day to day - and he lavished care and attention on the Orc, taking pleasure in treating his new companion with such kindness and forbearance that Shagrat, at first deeply suspicious and then thoroughly bemused by his host’s ministrations, had eventually had no choice but to blossom under it.

That was all over and done with now, though.  The Lady of the House had made that clear enough.  Shagrat had listened in on some of it, the dialogue between Goldilocks and his Lady, after he’d been given his marching orders earlier that afternoon.

**

“Wanted the chance to speak with her husband in private,” her Ladyship announced.  As it turned out after catching them at it she’d stormed off not very far at all – only into the next room in fact, a suspiciously convenient distance given that Goldilocks had – of course! – gone running after her immediately.  She’d not wanted to speak to Shagrat directly, and why should she?  And so Goldilocks, colouring up as he said it, had asked Shagrat if perhaps he couldn’t see him later on, in his room?  

After that she’d given poor old Goldilocks a proper tongue-lashing, once she thought Shagrat was safely out of earshot and though the Orc hated to admit it, what she’d said did make an awful lot of sense: the shame and disgrace that would be heaped on Faramir once news of his sordid / unnatural association with Shagrat became public - how no right-thinking person could accept it.  That it would never be justified.  And so on.

She wouldn’t rest till she’d managed to talk Goldilocks into seeing her point of view - Shagrat was sure of that.  No doubt Faramir would be persuaded round to his wife’s way of thinking soon enough because in all honesty the Orc was under no great illusion about the strength of the Prince’s attachment to him.  After all Faramir had – apparently with not a second thought or qualm of conscience - abandoned Shagrat to an uncertain fate on more than one past occasion, and his regard for Shagrat could at best be said to come and go.  No, Shagrat hadn’t really expected that whatever he and Faramir had between them would ever last, but painful as the thought of separation from his beloved Goldilocks was to him, that was not what was worrying him especially at this point.  As things stood it seemed extremely unlikely that he would be allowed to continue on his way.  

 

* * *

 


	4. Moonlight flit.

 

Gloomily, Shagrat glanced out of his window again, at the same time drawing his breath in a series of deep, careful sniffs.  The fog and gathering dusk had long since obscured the figure of the Rohirrim esquire who had been set to watch this part of the building, but Shagrat could tell from the faint tang of horse-sweat and unwashed body parts that occasionally wafted downwind towards him that the man was still standing guard in the shrubbery, where he had first concealed himself several hours previously. 

The inside of the house was being watched as well: there was a heavily armed, straw-headed pair lingering just down the corridor from Shagrat’s bed-chamber.  It seemed clear that steps had been taken to ensure that Shagrat would not be leaving Ithilien intact.  In fact he seriously doubted his chances of surviving the night.

Moving as quietly as he could, the Orc gathered his few belongings together on the bed.  There wasn’t much to take.  A walking-stick, given him by Goldilocks, which concealed a rapier-thin blade in its shaft, an empty wine-skin – that would serve as a water-flask at a pinch -  and a heavy woollen cape.  Shagrat had also at one point made himself a leg-brace.  When it was fitted in place he was able to stand properly and even walk distances if he was careful, though he’d dearly hoped that he would never have any cause to use it.  Faramir had managed to inveigle only one medical man into seeing him.  The fellow, who Shagrat suspected more usually found work as a horse-doctor, had muttered that in cases of this sort the best option for treatment was usually a sharp blow to the head with a blunt instrument, but, at Faramir’s insistence he’d done his best to re-align the breaks in the Uruk’s ankle.  This had been painful and had not done a noticeable amount of good and in the end Shagrat had spent an afternoon hammering the brace roughly into shape – in true Orcish fashion – from various second-hand pieces of leather and metal plate he’d scrounged for around the Royal Stables.  The farriers and grooms there had for the most part seen active military service, if not during the Ring War itself then as members of the local militia during the preceding years of hostilities.  And yet for some reason these men seemed to view the Orc with substantially less aggression than the household staff.  Like so much of human behaviour and the motivations that drove it this was a complete mystery to him.

Unfortunately for Shagrat it was his leg-brace that was his undoing.  When by his reckoning it was dark enough outside for him to make his escape, he bundled his few possessions together in Faramir’s cape and managed to lob the package out of the window quietly enough - but when he tried to swing his legs over the windowsill the unaccustomed weight of the brace on his foot made him clumsy.

He caught the edge of the open window-frame heavily; the casement shattered and then there came a prolonged racket of breaking, falling glass.  

At this the doors to Shagrat’s bed-chamber burst open immediately: the two Rohirrim guardsmen were there, shouting, fitting bolts to their crossbows and taking aim - and at that Shagrat, galvanised into action, heaved himself off the window-ledge, reaching for a large woody-stemmed creeper that was scrambling its way up the outer wall of the house.  His claws scrabbled through the foliage and scratched masonry as he desperately tried to find a purchase against the rough stone and branches, and in this way he fell rather than climbed most of the way down, but the vines slowed his descent enough that he arrived at ground level badly shaken, but otherwise unhurt.  Collecting his belongings he began moving at the fastest hobble he could manage, heading across the open space of the palace lawn towards cover.

Once again the Orc had miscalculated.  As he hurried through the dark, a whistling rush of arrows narrowly passed him and he realised he was being shot at - shot at, but not by the Rohirrim guardsmen in his room two stories above.

 Jinking and dodging clumsily he risked a look back over his shoulder and saw the esquire who’d been set to guard the palace gardens running at full tilt at him, rapidly closing the distance between them.  Then, when he was no more than a dozen body-lengths or so from the fleeing Orc, another patch of darkness seemed to detach itself from the wall of foliage surrounding the moonlit lawn.  It bowled across the grass with frightening, bounding speed and connected with the running Rohirrim, knocking him down and rolling with him over and over. 

The man gave a horrible, terrified scream at the same time as Shagrat, bellowing commands in Orcish at the top of his lungs was turning back, lurching back towards the fallen man as quickly as his one good leg could carry him.

By the time Shagrat reached the Rohirrim whatever had attacked him was gone.  The esquire was lying on the ground on his side - not moving but still breathing, at least.  The youth was not uninjured, for his assailant’s claws had raked him from shoulder to waist on the left-hand side, shredding through his long leather jerkin as if it was fine crepe and gouging a series of deep wounds. The Orc probed them briefly with his claws.  He was relieved to note that - although ugly, the marks did not seem especially severe; presumably the man had fainted not through blood-loss but from shock.

Quickly searching the unconscious man’s body Shagrat relieved him of his torn waistcoat, belt and side-weapons.  At this point the young man began to revive and in spite of whatever horror he had been subject to before Shagrat’s arrival, his face contorted with fresh terror and revulsion when he saw the Orc looming over him.  The sharp, sudden scent of the Rohirrim’s fear and the reek of fresh blood that rose so sweetly from his wounds made Shagrat’s head swim and in a reaction that was as natural for him as breathing his mouth started to water.  Unconsciously he licked his lips.

Though he had not spoken - had scarcely made a move towards him, the Rohirrim reacted immediately to the change in the Orc’s attitude.  Trembling with fright he began squirming backwards away from him.  Shagrat watched intently for a moment, quite entranced, then shook himself.

“Call for help before you bleed to death,” he snarled at the man.  There were lights already kindling in the lower level of the lodge and no doubt the other Rohirrim guardsmen would be arriving very soon.  Even so, Shagrat hesitated.  It would have been a different matter if he had been able to steal away undetected, but Goldilocks would undoubtedly think the worst if he was to leave like this - and there was little enough in the world that Shagrat cared about other than the Prince’s good opinion of him.  It was that and that alone that had stopped him from attacking the wounded Rohirrim and he wondered for a heartbeat if he might not stay and try to explain.  There was perhaps a chance – against everything else – that Goldilocks would listen to him.  But Shagrat’s decision was already being made for him as two events occurred in rapid succession: first of all the injured man set up a great clamour, yelling for help at the top of his voice.

“The Orc!” he shouted.  “It has savaged me!  Help me - here!  The beast is here!”

Then there came from the great house behind him the faint sound of voices, shouting loudly and far away.

“Shoot the Orc, on the Prince’s express orders - shoot him!”

Shagrat stared back at the house for a moment, aghast.  With the best will in the world, he couldn’t say that he hadn’t entirely been expecting it, but it still took the heart out of him (or rather ripped it open, squeezed it dry and left a ragged, aching void in his chest) to hear that from his beloved Goldilocks.  Making an effort he pulled himself together and then, moving to the best of his ability and with scarcely a glance over his shoulder at his erstwhile lodgings, the Orc turned his back on the royal palace at Ithilien and legged it off into the night.

* * *

 


	5. The powers behind the throne.

 

“He was beside himself!”  Eowyn cried.  “When he spoke to his men he was beside himself – raging!  I had never thought to see him so.  And he would not listen to reason, insisted that he was going to follow – and retrieve! - that creature.  I had to act.  But I wish that I had not had to -” she broke off, hiding her face in trembling hands.

Eowyn’s advisor seemed determined to make the best of the desperate situation.   “And if you had not stopped him?” he replied.  “Your husband would have run into the night in madness, shouting out his ‘love’ for the beast for all to hear.  The Prince’s reputation - his status - all would have been lost beyond hope of recovery – and, by proxy, your own.  It was your duty to prevent that, my lady.  Someone had to protect him from himself.”

Travelling from the city of Minas Tirith to Ithilien, Eowyn had brought an escort of her native countrymen, a core group of personal advisors - and bodyguards - who now accompanied her wherever she went.  Though in theory loyal to the crown of Gondor, they were first and foremost men of Rohan and as such answered chiefly to her. 

One senior member of this party was an older man, Hrodgar.  He was of an age with Eowyn’s father, and had at one time been one of the late King Theoden’s most trusted counsellors.  Since her move from her home country Eowyn had also come to regard this man as a confidant and friend, relying upon him especially in recent months, following the collapse of her marriage.  So much so that as yet Hrodgar was the only person to whom Eowyn had dared divulge the true and shameful details of her husband’s relationship with the Orc.

The practicalities of life at the Rohirrim court under Theoden’s rule meant that as well as the usual duties associated with their official title, most of his royal aides and advisors also carried a number of other responsibilities.  One of the additional roles that Hrodgar had fulfilled was that of apothecary to the King.  He had been forced to relinquish his responsibilities in this area to Grima son of Glamrod early on in that traitor’s career, but resumed the post soon after his rival - the hated ‘Wormtongue’ – had been deposed.  Grima’s departure from Rohan was so immediate and sudden that the court Apothecary’s chambers, rooms that he had taken for his own use, were still filled his personal and professional effects when Hrodgar had taken possession of them once again. The older man had been able to learn a great deal from the powders and potions that Grima left behind him, but the arcane knowledge that Hrodgar gained so easily had not been properly tempered with any sense of responsibility for its wise use.

It was on Hrodgar’s advice that Eowyn’s guards had been set to watch the Orc Shagrat, lest the beast try to escape the royal lodge and cause mischief far and wide.  Eowyn, being determined to stay with her husband to keep watch on him had instructed her advisor to make all necessary arrangements with her Rohirrim escort.  

As later became clear however, he had also taken it upon himself to secure additional back-up, in the form of a number of Faramir’s own men.  On the subject of detaining the Orc and the necessary force that should be used to accomplish this he also appeared to have issued the guards with some rather controversial instructions – although none of the men that Eowyn spoke to later, after the fact, were clear as to the specifics of what had been said.

Before the incident at any rate, Eowyn and Faramir had been passing a quiet evening together pleasantly enough.  Determined to preserve a façade of utmost normality, Eowyn had called for a light evening meal for two to be served in Faramir’s sitting room.  After eating informally together they sat companionably enough by the fire, and if Faramir’s attitude was definitely distracted, his innate courtesy kept him in his place by Eowyn’s side in spite of any inclination he might have had to be elsewhere.  After an appropriate amount of time had passed he did make one or two decided efforts to take his leave - but Eowyn was easily able to stall him, diverting her husband with tales and gossip about their mutual acquaintances at court.

Faramir, though he listened to her attentively, contributed little to the conversation, and during one of the many frequent pauses in their talk he noted the unmistakeable noises of a rumpus – stomping boot-steps, breaking glass – sounding in one of the rooms above.

“That must be Shagrat,” he said, quickly getting to his feet.  As he hurried out of the supper-room he was met by the two Rohirrim guards who had been set to watch the Uruk’s bedchamber as they came running downstairs. “What’s happening?” Faramir asked.

“We tried to stop him, Sire,” the first guardsman said, “but he was too far away.  I must report that the Orc is escaping.”

“Escaping?”  Faramir exclaimed, sounding bemused.  “But what does he want to escape for?  More to the point, what’s he got to be to escaping _from_?”  More shouting from the grounds called them outside, the Prince demanding an explanation from the Rohirrim as they went.

“Orc jumped straight out the window your Highness,” the guard explained, as Faramir stared at him in consternation.  “We hoped the fall’d do for him - but he hit the ground running.”

Another group of guardsmen - Ithilien residents this time – ran towards them out of the dark and reported that the Orc had not been seen at the front of the house.

“Headed cross-country out back, the last we saw,” the second Rohirrim confirmed.  “Thought I’d managed to wing him at first but the arrow didn’t hit.”

“’Wing’ him?” Faramir was aghast. “Explain yourself!”

“Afraid I didn’t get him, Sir.  Missed my shot when we fired that first volley.”

“Fired a volley?” Faramir repeated, his voice rising angrily.  “On whose authority?”

“The order came down from you yourself my Lord,” the first guardsman said, “that’s what we was told.” 

But the other, catching sight of Eowyn’s white face at the window behind Faramir added: “or so we thought.”

“Some of us ‘ud say we _hoped_ ,” muttered one of the Ithillien men under his breath.

“Shoot the Uruk on my orders?” Faramir cried, “shoot him?  If anyone –“ he broke off, teeth clenched, shivering with rage. “Did none of you stop and think for a moment that if I was going to be issuing an order of that sort I would have given it you myself?”

Determining at last that there was another pair of Rohirrim watching the main approach to the palace, plus a further guard stationed at the back of the house, Faramir ordered all of them to be called in, giving strict instructions that none of the men were to leave the house for the rest of the night.  The repercussions for their actions could wait until the morning; at that point the Prince had much more pressing business calling him.

Faramir dismissed the guards curtly, utterly disgusted with them, and returned to his personal quarters.  He was changing into his outdoor clothes when there came a quiet knock at the door, after which Eowyn let herself in without waiting for an answer.  She was carrying his wine glass from their evening meal.

“Faramir?” she began tentatively. “What are you doing, so late at night?”

“I’m going after him, of course,” Faramir replied.

“No – stay, here with me, Faramir.  Let the others go!  There is much we ought to discuss.”

Faramir replied that he wished Eowyn had been so keen for his company three months ago, before the summer.

“I could not get you to talk to me then,” he said, “and you have yet to tell me what has prompted your strange and sudden change of heart.  I wonder, is it jealousy, perhaps?  For you have ever desired most keenly that which another had, and you had not.”

So shocked was Eowyn that he would speak to her like this that she could make no reply.  Seeing her distress, Faramir sighed out sadly.

“Eowyn, I would be no company for you  - I would be no company for anyone, tonight.  What you have done – please, don’t think of denying it – but we will not speak of it now.  We must wait until tomorrow perhaps, when we - both of us - have had time enough to calm ourselves.  Then we may discuss what’s to be done, and we can remember to be kind to each other.”

Calm talk and kindness!  She would far rather he had wanted to rage at her!

“You must not go alone, Faramir,” Eowyn persevered.  “The beast is dangerous - and there is more to tell!  One of my guardsman was injured in his attempt to apprehend it.”

“Injured? Not by Shagrat?”

“The injury occurred perhaps not by the Uruk’s _own_ hand,” Eowyn acknowledged reluctantly.  “He was savaged by some kind of bear-like, monstrous creature -  no doubt another surviving denizen of Mordor.   We all feel sure the Orc was controlling it, in pursuit of some dark purpose.  My man heard with his own ears the two talking together in the Black Speech!  It was your Uruk that ordered the attack.”

Faramir was silent for a moment. A worried expression clouded his face.

“There’s obviously been some mistake.”

Eowyn replied that it was an undeniable fact that the poor boy had been robbed by the Orc, which had stripped his valuables off him as if he had been one of the battle-slain.

“He was terrorised by it - it stopped to torment him, even in the heat of its flight!  Threatening to bleed him to death - all of us are sure that your ‘tame’ Uruk, if it had not been interrupted would have ripped out his throat.”

“I should like to hear Shagrat’s version of the night’s events before drawing any hasty conclusions,” Faramir said.

“Hasty conclusions – that you could think of siding with that treacherous creature against an honourable man of Rohan!  He is a member of my own personal staff!”

In a mild voice Faramir commented that he was surprised to hear Eowyn accuse another person of treachery, especially since she had so recently orchestrated an unprovoked attack on a guest of his house.

“’Guest!’” Eowyn spat.

“He was under my protection!” cried Faramir in retort.  “As he still is and ever will be!  Why will you not understand?”  And then they stared at one another furiously, neither one willing to concede the other’s point.  Breaking away at last to leave, Faramir found his path blocked, bodily, by Eowyn.  She kept moving in front of him as he tried to pass her and they dodged this way and that, sidestepping together.

“Eoywn, stop it.  You’re making yourself ridiculous,” Faramir exclaimed at last, exasperated.

“Ridiculous!”  Eowyn screeched, pounding and pummelling at her husband’s chest in her frustration.  This was not the first time a person had raged and railed at him in anger; Faramir had often borne the brunt of his father’s black rages, and withdrawing into himself he waited patiently for his wife’s fury - as he knew eventually it would do - to blaze and burn itself out.  

Finally Eowyn came back to herself and she stared at him stricken, shocked by her own behaviour.

“Stay Faramir, please,” she choked out.  “It would be a cruelty for you to leave me now, like this.  Before you go we will talk calmly, as you wanted.  We must!  Here –“ she reached for the wine glass that she had left on Faramir’s bureau and offered it.

Faramir took it without thinking and drained it in one gulp.  His hand went to his throat for a moment, and his eyes widened in surprise as the effects of the potent drug that Hrodgar had administered swiftly began to take hold.  Even then he was able to take two more staggering, determined steps before his knees folded under him and then he collapsed slowly - almost gracefully - to the floor.

 

* * *

 


	6. An Orc and his Warg.

 

The moon was low in the western sky and would soon be setting behind a thick bank of clouds. Dawn was still several hours off as Shagrat limped his way doggedly along the valley bottom that led from Faramir’s residence, keen to put a few more miles between himself and any Rohirrim pursuers before the break of day. 

On leaving the Palace grounds he had left an obvious trail leading deep into the middle of the largest of the Ithilien marshes before doubling back on himself and making straight for the highway.  Although the road he was taking happened to be one of the main thoroughfares serving the province Shagrat had chosen the quickest route out of Ithilien.  He scarcely doubted that he could be easily tracked in any case.

Shagrat stopped short.  The stealthy footsteps off to his right that he had been listening out for continued for a moment and then stopped.   He breathed a long sigh of relief.

“You again,” the Orc said gruffly, into the darkness.  “Might as well come out now.  Let’s be having you.”

There was a prolonged rustling in the dry grass that lined the side of the track and in due course a dark-furred creature crept out from the underbrush.  It was hunkered so far down on its paws that its mangy belly dragged along the ground as it inched forwards, and as it approached it whined at Shagrat, wagging its stub of a tail appeasingly.  

The beast was vaguely dog-like, but its head was over large and its rear-quarters sloped downwards abruptly like a hyaena’s, which gave it a front-heavy, disproportioned appearance.  Despite the part that this beast had played in his recent and hasty departure from Ithilien Shagrat was glad enough to see it.

He knew it had Warg in its make-up, for it understood the Black Speech when Shagrat had first spoken to it, but there was not a great deal of that ferocious breed, and what there was had been mixed and diluted with sundry other doggy strains.  

Though rather undersized for a Warg it was much too big to be to be a wolf, and it had a scrofulous cast to its staring coat that suggested more than a dollop of domestic dog or jackal in its recent ancestry.  On the whole it represented a pretty poor specimen of any canine species because it was mangy and decrepit-looking, and was missing more than half its teeth.  If this hadn’t been the case however there was every chance that Shagrat wouldn’t have been standing talking to it at that moment; if not for the poor condition of this Warg, the Orc would have long-since been dead.

During Shagrat’s time with the travelling circus he had occasionally been called on to participate in certain crowd-pleasing, special entertainment events: Orc takes on and is defeated by the village strong-man, is grappled to the ground by a local wrestler - and so on.  The last of the challenges that he’d been involved in had also featured this particular Warg, a recent addition to the circus that Shagrat had been scheduled to fight - and eventually defeat.  When it came to it the competition hadn’t exactly been a clash of Titans.  On the night of the contest Shagrat, at the end of his tether, had knelt down in front of the beast and beseeched it to put an end to his miserable life.

The Warg, in all fairness, had tried its best but had failed to finish Shagrat off entirely.  Although Shagrat’s Barker had quickly stepped into the (extremely anticlimactic) fray and forcibly prised the two (would-be) combatants apart, this was almost wholly on account of the Warg’s general lack of sharp teeth.   

Sometime during the night after their contest Shagrat, who had been left for dead outside the Barker’s lock-up, managed to release the Warg from its cage.  Strictly speaking this hadn’t been a good deed on the old Orc’s part: what he’d really intended - as a parting shot - was to try and deliberately scotch one of the Barker’s money-making enterprises.  

The following morning though, Goldilocks, having very unexpectedly stepped in at the last possible moment, had rescued Shagrat in turn - after which the Orc found himself being borne off to safety in Ithillien.  And the wolf-Warg had tracked after them, following at enough of a distance that it had escaped even the notice of the keen-eyed Rangers of Ithillien who made up Faramir’s personal escort.  

Since then it had been lying up in one of the swamplands that bordered the Royal Palace, where Shagrat had been feeding it - partly out of gratitude but mostly for fear that otherwise, it would have attempted to messily disembowel some sundry member of Faramir’s household staff.  He had done his utmost to impress upon it the idea that these people were no longer legitimate prey, and he thought - till now – he’d gotten that message across successfully.

Still, it had attacked the guard back at the palace and Shagrat eyed it speculatively, considering that it might possibly be running rabid.  It looked calm enough for the moment however and he wondered why - of all people - it had chosen to savage the Rohirrim guard.  Most likely the reek of horse-sweat that came off the man had enraged it, stirring up long-suppressed emotions in the beast, Shagrat decided at last – and, having come close to taking a tasty bite out of the man himself, he could certainly sympathise with that easily.  

(Shagrat never did figure out what had provoked the animal to attack, the notion that anyone or anything might willingly want to watch his back being a concept that was at that point utterly unfamiliar to him.)

As he walked Shagrat mulled over his future prospects, and in very little time had decided where he was heading.  There was only one kind of place that suited Orcs, really.  Up in the mountains, where the high passes would be permanently cloud-covered, and the gorges and ravines were so deep they’d provide shelter from even the hottest summer sun.  His Warg trotting at his heels, Shagrat struck out for the distant line of peaks that formed the border region of Gondor.  In less than a week they reached the first foothills of the mountains.

It had been many years since Shagrat had had the chance to hunt at his leisure and he had almost forgotten the satisfaction of tracking and catching his own dinner.  Roe deer, wild mountain sheep and smaller game animals were in fine, fat condition and were plentiful in the upland woods and pastures.  With the Warg’s help he made easy prey of them, and they could easily catch as much as they could eat.  The Orc’s long-term plan - such as he had one - was to find a secure place in which he could over-winter.  But the hunting was good and the cold season still some way off, and so the Uruk and Warg spent the last days of summer wandering at their ease through the high forests.  Clean air, fresh food and regular exercise turned out to have the same beneficial effects on ex-servants of Mordor as they would on anyone else and soon both Shagrat and his canine travelling companion had noticeably filled out, the Uruk regaining a little of the strength and muscle-mass he’d lost since the fall of Mordor.

He had been roaming in the mountains for a perhaps a little under a month when he came across a wide, trampled trail that had obviously been made by other Orcs.  The scent was still fresh and their spoor looked to be no more than a day old.  The Warg wasn’t with him; lately it had taken to spending longer and longer periods away on its own in the woods, and Shagrat surmised that it was off looking for others of its own kind - perhaps even for a mate.  Though he was not by nature a sociable creature, through Faramir’s influence Shagrat had become much more tolerant of company and to his surprise, found that he had even come at times to wish for it.  That, combined with his curiosity about his fellow-Orcs, was enough to make him decide to follow them.

By night-fall Shagrat was within sight of their encampment.  He hadn’t bothered to conceal his approach and soon enough his presence had been detected by whatever Orcish watchmen had been set around the camp’s perimeter.  Before long, a voice came shouting at him out of the little hollow in the hills where the group had laid up to rest.

 

* * *

 


	7. Orcish reunion.

 

“Come out where we can see yous,” the other Orc barked.  “We heard and smelled you coming a mile back so don’t think of trying nothing clever.”

Recognising the voice, Shagrat’s heart sank as he realised that this Orc-band included at least one of his former acquaintances.  It was, unfortunately, too late for him to turn back.

He stepped out into the circle of firelight, scanning the clearing back and forth and counting bodies.  There were five of ‘em, eight counting the Snaga, and that was just that he could see.  Some were familiar but there were also a number of new faces.

“All right then, Dokuz?” Shagrat said to the large lead Uruk who had spoken.

“Well if it ain’t the Uruk what formerly used to be known as Captain Shagrat,” Dokuz replied, and if he was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it.  “What you been up to since you parted company from our merry band, eh, Shaggers?”

“You know what he’s been up to,” another of the Uruks reminded his companion.  This one’s name, as Shagrat would later find out, was Rukush.  “Isn’t this the same chap we seen in that town we stopped in going down the coast?  Market day, no end of commotion, an’ then what do we find but it’s only your old mate Shagrat, strung up in the square!  Head stuck in the stocks, hands out like this, and folk all flinging muck at him.  You laughed about it for a week, Dokuz!  ‘How far the mighty have fallen!’ you said.  I remember that!  And you started that rumour about –“

“Yeah.  Oh yeah,” Dokuz interrupted, sniggering evilly.  “Now here’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you a long time, Shaggers.  Hey!  You lot!” he shouted, waiting till he had the attention of the whole gang of Orcs before continuing.  “Oi!  Oi, Shagrat!  Grown back yet, have they?”

“No,” Shagrat replied, carefully keeping his voice neutral.  “No, they haven’t.  As well they might not.”

“I want you to know,” continued Dokuz, “sad as I was to see the back of ‘em, and dear as they was to my heart - those little keepsakes I had from you, Shaggers my old dear - in that town I sold the pair I cut off you for a blasted _mint_.”

Shagrat’s right hand clenched tightly into a fist, and with a quick involuntary movement he rubbed his thumb against the knuckle-stubs of his index and middle fingers; all that was left of them, since the rest had been hacked away.

“Is that right?” he replied quietly.  “Is that a bleedin’ fact.”  With his left hand he reached surreptitiously for his sword-stick, taking a step towards Dokuz at the same time.  Outnumbered or not, there was no way he was standing for this and if he was quick enough, there was even a chance he would take that rotten braggart Dokuz down with him.  “Trading in Orc-flesh now eh, Dokuz?  Can’t say I’m surprised.  You’d never stick at anything would you?  You low, conniving -”

Rising to Shagrat’s challenge Dokuz stood up slowly, grinning at his opponent all the while. “Remember what happened last time, Shaggers,” he warned.  “Thought you’d learned your lesson.  Thought I’d sorted it so you wouldn’t be able to raise another blade against me in a hurry.  Don’t make me beat you in front of this lot again.”

“You’ve got no chance,” Shagrat retorted, wounded pride pricking at him, “you had to wait till I was down last time, well out of it from that poisoned knife-stick I took in the ribs, and –“

“’Oh, I was off my game,’ ‘he gave me the slip’, and let’s never forget the immortal: ‘but-I-fort-this-was-the-Halfling-treasure-what-you-was-after!’,” Dokuz mimicked, affecting the self-justifying, whining voice of an utter incompetent.  “Always excuses, excuses, excuses, with you, innit,” he continued, “and if ever there was a sorry excuse for an Orc, you, Shaggers my friend, are most definitely it.  You’re more Snaga than Uruk – and have been a long time.  I’ve always said it.”

“ _Was_ that true then, Dokuz?” Rukush interrupted earnestly, absent-mindedly wandering up and standing between Dokuz and Shagrat, seemingly quite oblivious to the growing tension between them.  Evidently he was also several beats behind in the conversation, and he repeated the question, tugging on his companion’s jacket to get his attention.  “Dokuz!  Is it true what you said about Orcs’ finger-bones being good luck for gamblers?  I never heard of that before!   Does - does anyone know about it but you?”

“No,” Dokuz sighed wearily, sagging down slightly and taking his seat once again.  “We made that up when we were in that town.   It was just a wind-up - so I’d get a better price for Shagrat’s.  You remember, don’t you, Rukush?”

“Yeah?  Oh yeah! Yeah!”

“Thinking ain’t exactly his strong suit,” Dokuz acknowledged to Shagrat as Rukush ambled off out of earshot again, “but he does what I says and the lads’ll do what he tells ‘em.  He’ll make a grand second-in-command one of these days.  I’m training him up, you know - same as you did me.”

“You’d better do a better job than I did then,” said Shagrat sourly, “or he’ll end up stabbing you in the back, same as you did me.”

“Oh, give it up Shaggers, it was dog-eat-dog in them days,” Dokuz retorted.  “And I never done nothing you wouldn’t of tried yourself.”

At that point a short, rotund and hairy creature bustled into the circle of firelight.  On first glance Shagrat assumed it was one of the smaller type of Orcs. Though stunted - even for a Snaga - it certainly approximated the size of one of them, but as it approached he saw it had a healthy, glowing complexion and a well-fed plumpness to it that no Snaga-Orc ever did.  Shagrat could scarcely believe what he was seeing but it was – could not be _anything_ other – than, than a bleedin’ Halfling.  A Halfling, here in the mountains, with Dokuz and his Orcs!  The big Uruk gawped at it.

The Halfling beamed back at him and then bowed low to the ground.  “Ludlow Pennycress at your service,” it said.

That sounded like abject gobbledegook to Shagrat and he ignored it.  The little creature was unabashedly staring at him, and eventually sidled closer until it was standing at his elbow.  “Excuse me,” he said, “s’cuse me, Mr Orc, Sir.  I was wondering, and the gentleman over there -”

At this another of the Dokuz’s cronies - an Uruk that Shagrat didn’t know from before - laughed out derisively.  He was short for an Uruk, squat and muscular and almost as broad as he was tall.

“- he said he was sure you wouldn’t mind my asking.  What _is_ under your eye patch?”

Shagrat turned on him, drawing breath to make a sharp retort, but being met by Ludlow’s bland, innocently staring expression, found himself stopping short.  The eye-patch had been one of Goldilock’s earlier innovations;  he’d hoped it would make Shagrat less of an unpalatable sight to the Palace staff.  Unfortunately this cosmetic adjustment hadn’t made a blind bit of difference, but the Orc had grown accustomed to wearing it.  He sighed out, wearily.  “There’s nothing underneath,” Shagrat said.  “That’s why people have ‘em.”

“Oh, right,” the Halfling replied.

“It’s the whole point,” Shagrat continued, not really knowing why he was bothering to labour the issue.  “It’s cover, for when you’re missing your eye.”

“And _are_ you missing your eye?”

Shagrat didn’t know why he was even bothering to continue with this silly conversation.  “Well...I am.  Yeah.”

“Oh!  But it suits you,” Ludlow said.  “Rakish. You know.”

Shagrat eyed him doubtfully, convinced that in some way he was having the rise taken out of him. He snarled, but it was only a half-hearted effort.  The old Uruk turned his back on the irritating little creature.

“What’s the point of that, anyway?” Shagrat snapped in Orcish, jerking his head at the Hobbit.

“Provisions,” the block-shaped Uruk replied, in kind.  “Fresh meat.  Much easier to carry when it’s on the hoof.”

“It’s a bit small, isn’t it?”

“Quality over quantity,” Dokuz explained.  “More of what you’d call a speciality foodstuff.  We can afford to pick and be choosy these days.  Mean ter say, now that we’ve got a leadership with a bit of nounce behind it.  Connoisseurs, and that, innit?.”

Shagrat gave him a blank look.

“Crackling,” one of the smaller Orcs explained, smacking his lips surreptitiously.  “You seen the amount of fat on him?  Right little porker.  Talk about tasty!  Little butterball like that should roast up a treat, eh?”

“What, him, really?”

“Not going soft in your old age are you, Cap’n?” said the broad-shouldered Uruk who had spoken earlier, with mock concern.

“Nah, Azof, between you and me he always was as soft as shite,” Dokuz scoffed.  “You ought to of seen what he did with this pretty-boy Tark he got his claws in one time -”

“Tark-sport?  Oh yeah?”  Azof prompted eagerly.

“No, no, nothing like that.  Only went and fell for the blighter, didn’t he?  The bleedin’ Mary.  So ‘in lurve’ he went and showed the bugger the back door to Cirith Ungol, ‘stead of shagging him blind then slitting his throat like any normal person would’ve.”

“Disgustin’!” Azof hooted.

“Fair dos though.  Having said that, time was my old mate Shaggers ‘ud have had that little Shire-rat’s liver and lights out, right alongside the rest of us.  Started off a vicious enough old sod all right - never would of made Captain of the Tower without that.  But anyone can see he’s never been quite right, never since – well, since he ‘ad his troubles.”

“Nazgul’s pet, you mean?” said Azof.  “Oh yeah – yeah!  That one went all the way across Mordor and back didn’it?  I didn’t get it was _him_ in that.  Yeah, give us a story, eh, Shaggers?  The way I heard it you always was as close-mouthed as anything about your holiday in lovely Lugburz.  That Ringwraith had you bang to rights - now that was quite a fix!  Go on now, tell us, how the frigg did you manage to extract yourself out a pretty pickle like that?”

“ _What_ did he ‘av to frigg, more like!”

“Nah,” Dokuz said.  “He could tell us a much better ‘un.  ‘How I nearly won the War.’  Frigged it up for all of us though, didn’t he – and all on account of him bein’ a dirty old bender.  Exactly what _was_ he doin,’ our brave Captain Shagrat, all that time alone with that little Ring-Bearing bleeder up top in Cirith Ungol.  That’s what you gotta ask yourself.  Never bothered searchin’ ‘im proper, that’s for sure.”

“Too busy feeling him up, I shouldn’t wonder,” Azof said.

“That goes without saying,” Dokuz agreed. “Don’t it Shaggers, you shit-stabbin’ old coot!”

Shagrat bristled.  Over the years, the Uruk ex-Captain had had a lot of time to think about various things.  And he had come, arguably for an Orc, to some quite radical conclusions - about leadership styles in general and in particular about the wisdom of unquestioningly rendering lifelong services unto the kind of Dark Overlord who had the lack of foresight to tie up all his cruelty and malice – not to say his desire to dominate all the races of the earth - into a single, easily mislay-able (and ultimately, destroyable) portable object of very small size.  Shagrat voiced these opinions now, rather forcefully.

“Yeah, I suppose you got a point there Shagrat,” Dokuz agreed at length, nodding approvingly.   He shifted over and made room for Shagrat by the fire.  “I s’pose you could say in them days we was all a bit too easily led.”

“Not that we had a lot of choice back then, mind you,” another of the Uruks added, at which there was a general rumbling of Orcish agreement.

“Rings of Power, my arse,” muttered Azof. “We’re better of without ‘em.”

Shagrat wasn’t particularly mollified by any of this, but his bad leg was hurting and had begun trembling in a way that suggested that if he didn’t get his weight off it at least for a minute, it would soon give out.  To avoid this happening in front of Dokuz’s band he took a seat beside the others.

Throughout this conversation the Hobbit had been pottering about on the far side of the camp-fire, not really following what was being said, since he obviously didn’t understand the Black Speech - which the Orcs were using when they spoke among themselves.  At the mention of the words ‘Cirith Ungol’ however he had begun to look up with interest and was now staring over at them, gaping at Shagrat boggle-eyed, almost apoplectic with excitement.

“You’re _that_ Shagrat?  Captain Shagrat of the dark Tower of Cirith Ungol!” he exclaimed in an awestruck voice.  “Oh!  It’s incredible to meet - but you’re aren’t – of course you can’t _really_ be him.  I mean to say, we all heard that you were –“

“What’ve you heard?” Shagrat demanded, through gritted teeth.

“Well, we all heard that you were ever so, ever so terribly _fierce_.”

On hearing this the whole company of Orcs began laughing and howling uproariously.

 “He’s got the measure of you, hasn’t he mate!” Dokuz cried.

Shagrat stood up abruptly, cut to the quick, knocking his walking-stick flying in the process. Stumbling as he tried to catch his balance he almost fell, but was steadied by the Hobbit, who had rushed up solicitously to help.

The chance to make a quick and easy exit from Dokuz’s camp wasn’t lost on Shagrat.  Thanking his lucky stars for the opportunity, he did not so much as hurry as deliberately flounce away from the other Orcs, provoking more peals of laughter from them as he went.  As soon as he judged that he was far enough away, he took to his heels properly.  

As a social call, the visit hadn’t been much of a great success.

 

* * *

 


	8. A change in travel plans.

 

Shagrat was following a steeply sloping trail that wended uphill through tall stands of broad-leaved trees.  He had gone only a short distance when the Hobbit, huffing and puffing and apparently running at full tilt, caught up with him.  Trotting along by his side, he handed up Shagrat’s walking-stick, which in his haste the Orc had left in Dokuz’s camp.  Shagarat grabbed it out of his hands while the Hobbit gabbled apologies breathlessly.

“It’s all right.  You did me a favour, to tell the truth,” said Shagrat briskly, not letting up his quick pace.  “I was looking for an excuse to get out of there.”

“What about your friends, those other Orcs?” the Hobbit said, hurrying to keep up with him.

“No friends of mine,” Shagrat told him, and added that he’d better go back to them, while he could still find the way.

Ludlow hesitated, dragging his feet.

Shagrat stopped and regarded the irritating little creature for a moment.  For some reason, Goldilocks had an almighty soft-spot for Halflings, he knew that much.  Terribly fond of them he was, and most likely would do his nut - or worse - if he ever heard that Shagrat had stood by and let one of them be done to death and then eaten for dinner without even trying to stop it.

“What d’you think you’re doing with that band of blackguards anyway?” Shagrat snapped.

“Well, it’s the funniest thing.  I came down here to see a bit of the country  - all the sights and things, and they offered to give me the full tour.  It was very reasonably priced.”

“They’ve got you to pay them?” Shagrat stared at him incredulously.  “Are you soft in the head or something?  Don’t you know anything about Orcs?”

Frowning, Ludlow asked him what he meant.

“They’re planning to kill you and eat you, not take you on a holiday,” Shagrat explained shortly.  With this he felt he was more than satisfactorily absolving any responsibility or duty of care that he might owe the Hobbit populace in general.

Ludlow, however, seemed to take this worrying news in his stride.

“Oh, right,” he said.  “I _have_ been wondering about that.”  He hurried up to Shagrat’s side. “So where are you going?” he asked.

“Up into the mountains,” Shagrat told him.

“Are you really?  And what’s up there?”

 “Up there it’s high and it’s cold and there’s clouds to hide you from the sun.”

“It sounds delightful.  Can - can I come?”

The Orc gave him a withering glare and turned away without speaking, continuing on up the woodland path.  Undeterred, the Hobbit kept on scampering after him, following sometimes at a greater, and other times at a lesser distance.  Trusting that he would be bound to fall behind eventually Shagrat did his best to ignore him, and in this way they climbed, steadily gaining altitude for the rest of the night.  By the time the sky was growing pale with the first morning light, they had come to the end of the oak and beech forests that covered the lower slopes of the foothills.  They were walking among pine trees now, and the patches of bare rock and scree-slope in their path were becoming more and more extensive.

Crossing one of these open areas, Ludlow suddenly let out a squeal of excitement.  “Look, Shagrat!” he said, pointing to a cone-shaped mountain far on the western horizon.  There was a faint column of smoke rising vertically from it. “Whatever’s that!”

“Volcano,” the Uruk grunted, glancing at it and giving the Hobbit a baleful, yellow-eyed stare.  “I saw one close-up, once.  Take it from me, you wouldn’t want to get any nearer to it than this.”

At that moment he became aware of a faint voice that was echoing up the mountainside towards them.

“Shagrat!  You shirt-lifting bastard!” it shouted.  “Give me back my bleedin’ Hobbit!”

It was Dokuz.  He came into view a moment later - running hard in hot pursuit, and he rushed towards them up the narrow path, huffing and puffing and breathing heavily.

“I oughter of finished you properly the last time and saved myself a lot of bother,” he yelled at Shagrat as he approached. “Should’ve left you as carrion on that mountainside, ‘cause carrion’s all you’re fit for, now.”

“Funny, I thought that’s what you did do,” Shagrat commented, and turned to face him.

“Yeah, well,” Dokuz said, looking nonplussed.  “Well - you don’t know what a trial it’s been to me, keeping that little bleeder out of trouble.  Talk about – feckin’ - _accident-prone_?  Little shit-streak’s gotta have, like a death wish, or something.  Give him here and we’ll say no more about it.”

“Don’t think I will, at that,” said Shagrat.  He shoved Ludlow further up the path behind him, putting him out of harm’s way for no other reason than that this would be bound to irritate Dokuz.

“Last chance, Captain,” Dokuz said, going on to count each of Shagrat’s inadequacies off on his fingers as he spoke.  “Don’t think I ain’t noticed you got a wellgammy leg.  Can’t see how you’re still standing, to tell the truth.  You’re not wearing that eye patch for show, neither.  Strewth, Shagrat mate, you look like you been chewed up and spat out again by somethink.  What the bleeding hell’s ‘appened to you?”

“Ran into trouble after you lot pinched all my kit,” Shagrat replied. “Little contretemps with a bear.”

“Conti- contree- my bleedin’ eye,” Dokuz scoffed, telling Shagrat to pull the other one while he was at it. “You’ve never taken on a bear!  Unless you bullshitted the bugger to death at twenty paces with all your poncy talk, did you?”

Shagrat shrugged.

“We both know your sword-hand’s well knackered,” Dokuz continued, slightly rattled despite himself by Shagrat’s nonchalant attitude.  “You – you ain’t got a weapon anyway.”

“You bone-headed idiot,” Shagrat snarled, unsheathing the hidden blade from inside his walking-stick, “I’ll fight you left-handed any day of the week.”

“Ooo!  Very fancy,” Dokuz commented and without warning, he rushed at Shagrat.  The older Uruk stepped sideways and back to avoid him - only to collide with the Hobbit, who had crept up so close behind him that he was practically hugging the skirt of Shagrat’s tunic.  They both fell over, sprawling among the stones and rocks.

Dokuz sighed and rolled his eyes at them.  “It’s _pitiful,_ that’s what this is,” he told Shagrat, and bent over to disarm him.  “You’re nowt but a bleedin’ embarrassment!  To us, yourself, and everybody else.  Folk you ain’t even _met_ yet - they’re all pissing all over themselves wiv’ embarrassment, an’ that’s on account of you, too. ” 

Shagrat, still on his back, lunged for his opponent and missed, and at that Dokuz kicked him away, his heavily-booted foot impacting hard against the base of Shagrat’s ribs. “Did I mention you were also outnumbered?” he added as Azof and one of the other smaller Orcs came clattering up the trail towards them.

“You got ‘em!” Azof shouted. “Nice one boss!”

The three of them began laying into Shagrat properly after that, belabouring him with their feet and fists.  Unable to regain his footing, the beleaguered Uruk fought back in silence as best he could, but after several minutes Dokuz kicked him again, effortlessly finding that same centre of pain in his side - and when he did that all thoughts Shagrat had of anything else left him quite completely.  Dokuz’s blows had done something awful to a pre-existing injury to his chest, something that Shagrat did his best not to think about, day-to-day.  All the breath was driven out of him and wheezing helplessly he folded himself around the frightening area of pain and looseness, curling up where he was lying to protect it from further damage.

His opponent however had other ideas. “That hit the spot, did it Shaggers?” Dokuz said, with some interest.  “Azof.  Hold him still a minute, yeah?  That’s the way.  Stretch ‘im right out.”

Azof’s strong hands grabbed hold of Shagrat and he began trying to force him up onto his knees. From his position at ground level Shagrat saw Dokuz’s feet moving purposefully out of his field of view.  Realising that the other Orc was planning to take a run at him, he struggled frantically to break free.

The next moment he was floundering on his face in the dirt.  Azof had thrown him down and Dokuz had started screaming horribly.

“What the frigg – what the flying frigg is that?” the little snaga-Orc was screeching. “Where the frigg – where the frigg’s it frigging come from?”

All this Orcish yelling heralded the arrival of the Warg – Shagrat’s Warg – which had attacked Dokuz’s party, making a beeline straight for Dokuz, as their leader.  It was snarling ferociously and already had him pinned to the ground.  Worrying at him with its claws, it growled and slavered over at Azof and his smaller companion.  The two Orcs were managing to hold it at bay, but seemed unsure how to proceed because -

“Don’t try nothing!” Dokuz was howling at them, “the bugger’ll have me - Shagrat, gerrit off me! Shagrat!  Call the frigging thing off!”

Shagrat, still dazed and wounded, rolled painfully onto his hands and knees.  He stayed with his head down for a moment, after which it took him a long time to finally get to his feet.  None of the other Orcs dared make any comment.

“You,” Shagrat said, addressing the Hobbit, who was still cowering among the stones and watching them, wide-eyed.  “Get their stuff and bring it over here, will you?”

Ludlow obeyed immediately, hurrying over to where the Orcs had left their backpacks.  One by one, he dragged the bulky objects back to Shagrat, also taking for himself a smaller, Hobbit-sized haversack that Azof’s companion had been carrying.

“Right,” Shagrat said to Dokuz, who was still pinned benath the Warg, “I’m taking this –“ he indicated the largest pack, which was Azof’s, “and that” – pointing to the Hobbit, for all the stuff you nicked off me before.  Seem fair enough to you?”

“He can’t ‘ave that one,” Azof protested, pointing at his pack.  “Tell ‘im, boss. It’s got the –“

“Tell him he can have whatever he likes,” Dokuz interrupted hurriedly.  “Take whatever you fancy, Shagrat, old mate,” he called.

Obeying a quick instruction from Shagrat, the Warg jumped clear of Dokuz.  It kept on barking maniacally at him with hackles raised, and clawed the ground in frustration at Shagrat having halted its attack.  “See this lot off, all right?” Shagrat told it.  “Make sure they don’t come back in a hurry.”

The Warg bounded energetically towards the three Orcs.  For a moment Azof looked as if he was thinking about standing and facing it, but with Dokuz yelling:

“Leave it alone!  Just leave it!”

\- at him, he joined in their scramble to get out of the way.

Shagrat waited till they were far out of sight down the rocky path.  He shouldered Azof’s pack then sat down heavily under the unexpected weight, trying to gauge distances across the mountainside to the next stand of trees.  It looked like a long way.  Too far, maybe.  The sun was getting higher and the bare ground ahead of him was already beginning to swim and grow hazy with the heat.  The Hobbit was also hovering around at the edges of his vision, irritatingly.

“What d’you think you’re looking at?” Shagrat snapped.  “Haven’t you seen someone getting done over before?”

“No!” said Ludlow.

Shagrat snorted wryly, and explained that the good kicking he’d just received wasn’t the first one he’d ever had, that it hadn’t been the worst by a long shot, and the way his luck was going these days it probably wouldn’t be the last one, either.

“But they attacked you three against one,” Ludlow said, bristling with indignation.  “It wasn’t _fair_.”

“We’re Orcs,” Shagrat told him wearily.  “That’s what we do.”  Thinking about the beating he’d taken made the pain of it return with a vengeance.  He was far from being the Uruk he once had been and was well past being able to take that sort of treatment in his stride.  Worse in a way was the knowledge that he’d been bested by Dokuz yet again – another knock to his already-battered pride, and pride was a commodity of which, given the life he’d been leading lately he’d had little enough remaining in any case.  Feeling dreadfully tired he slumped down next to the nearest boulder and rested against it.  It couldn’t hurt to close his eye just for a minute.

He woke a moment later with Ludlow patting his arm insistently.

“Come on, Captain, you can’t stay here,” the Hobbit was saying.

“Get away from me!” Shagrat howled, coming awake with a start and shaking him off, “stop following me!  When will you get it through your thick head I don’t want you – leave me alone!”

Ludlow skittered a few steps back in fright but stopped where he was and went no further. Apparently he was going to be stubborn about this.

In the end Shagrat had no choice but to accept the Hobbit’s help.  He didn’t particularly fancy his chances of making it to cover unaided, and as his only other alternative would have been a slow death from exposure out on the mountainside, he reluctantly leant on the shoulder that Ludlow was gamely offering him.  Even then they made very slow progress.  Shagrat seemed unable to catch his breath properly and had to stop frequently, but at last they reached the nearest stand of trees.

It was cool and dark under the branches.  Lurching free the Hobbit, the Uruk dragged himself further into the little wood.  The ground was carpeted with pine needles and he sank down and lay on his back.  Through the pine boughs the sky was dazzlingly blue, and for a while he watched the clusters of white clouds above him chasing along in the sunlight, being blown by the gusty morning breeze. There was even the tinkling, musical sound of water falling over rock coming from a little stream nearby.   

That it couldn’t possibly have been more ghastly _,_ was Shagrat’s last coherent thought as he fell asleep.  He had never seemed to require much in the way of shut-eye back in the old days, but that was another thing about him that circumstances seemed to have changed and by the time he woke again, it was dark.

Fortunately Ludlow had already spent some time living among Orcs, because otherwise the spectacle of Shagrat, screaming and lurching to his feet like some kind of demented scarecrow in the moonlight would surely have sent him scurrying for cover.

“Oh, hullo.  You’re up again, I see,” he observed blandly, once the Uruk had quietened somewhat.  “How are you feeling?”  

He was sitting beside the neat little camp-fire he had built, busily cooking a meal.  The Warg was close by, watching him with a hungry look in its eye.

Shagrat grumbled unintelligibly in reply.  The Hobbit got up and handed him a large tin mug of something alcoholic, explaining that he thought that Shagrat might like a drink from the bottle Azof had been carrying in his pack.  The fumes rising off the vile brew made the Uruk’s eyes water.

“What’s that on your face,” Ludlow asked, peering at him closely.  “Is that –“

“It’s nothing,” Shagrat said, wiping his mouth hurriedly.  He coughed carefully into his hand.  There was more of the same but, he was relieved to note, a lot less of it than there had been before.

“- is that _blood_?” Ludlow exclaimed.  He watched Shagrat swallow a deep draught from Azof’s cup. “Do you think you should you be drinking that in your condition?” he said.

“Probably not,” Shagrat told him, adding that at least it made you feel like it was doing some good.  A fresh fit of coughing shook him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“It was that – that blasted volcano I told you about,” Shagrat wheezed.  “Blew its top right after the fall of Mordor.”  He waved his claw vaguely.  “All burning smoke, and raining ash and poison fumes rolling down the mountainside, while everyone the wrong side of the Black Gate was running for it.”

Ludlow gasped.  “How did you escape?”

Shagrat hesitated.  “Well I – actually I was in prison at the time.”

“In prison?” Ludlow echoed, seemingly far more disturbed by the idea of Shagrat being an ex-jail-bird than he was by the fact that he had spent most of his life as a servant of the Dark Lord in Mordor.  “Whatever were you in prison for?”

“Gross dereliction of duty,” Shagrat said shortly.  “They’d had their eye on me a long time, after - after something else that happened - before.  Got my command back eventually, but short of officers or not they never forgot and I was watched all through it, even closer than usual.  So this time they didn’t hang about to ask questions.  I was sent down soon as they’d figured out something had gone wrong.  I was lucky though, compared to some.”

“Lucky?”

“Wasn’t burned to death straight off for starters, was I?  And the pit they’d thrown me in was deep enough to hold out through the first of the earthquakes.  Tremors tore down the walls and afterwards it took forever, but in the end I was able to make it to the surface.  But the smoke did a number on my blasted lungs, didn’t it?  They’ve never been right since.”  Having his chest caved in courtesy of Dokuz hadn’t exactly done them any favours either, Shagrat thought, as he gingerly fingered his bruised ribs.

“Then what happened?” Ludlow asked him.

Shagrat was silent for a minute or two.  He’d never spoken about this, as with the other Orcs it had become something of a taboo subject but from what he’d seen for himself at the time he knew that their experiences must have been fairly similar.  Their dark master Sauron had kept things in order – amongst other, more directly physical methods – by putting a cruel little splinter of himself inside the heads of all his minions.

‘Minions,’ thought Shagrat.  That was undoubtedly what Dokuz would’ve called poncy talk, and it was: it was just a fancy way of calling what they all of them were, which was slaves.  Everyone Shagrat had known back then had been affected by it, some undoubtedly worse than others, but even if it was just the faintest trace, such was the Dark Lord’s power that it would be enough for Him to ensure they’d keep in line.  When that connection went - well, it hadn’t exactly been pleasant. Shagrat wondered if the Hobbit could possibly understand what it had been like, and sincerely doubted it.

“A lot of us stopped where we were standing,” Shagrat said eventually.  “Shock, or something, I don’t know.  Everyone was hard hit when Saruon - that’s the Dark Lord, fell.  He took a fair few right on the spot.  Intended to most likely, odds are he meant to take everyone with him when he finished.  That’s the way they did things back then in Mordor, but he never managed it.  The dregs was left running about like headless chickens afterwards, myself included.”

In a long and violent life filled with mostly horrendous experiences, the lasting terror and panic he’d shared with the other minions of the Dark Lord at the fall of Mordor still stood head-and-shoulders out as one of Shagrat’s more notably unpleasant memories.  A nameless, choking fear had driven him and his comrades on like dust at the foot of a whirlwind, forcing them to flee and scattering the remnants of the Black Army far and wide.  Shagrat, like the others had run till he dropped, lying insensible out in the open wherever he fell, and then when he woke again he’d run some more. Many of them had not made it past that part and had succumbed to the heat, and madness and exhaustion but slowly, over time, the terror had gradually dissipated.  When he finally came to himself, the Orc was many miles from where he’d started, in an unknown region in the foothills of the southern mountains.

“Then I met up with that lot, with Dokuz and some of the others,” Shagrat said.  “We had a bit of a ruck not long after that as it happens.  Decided it would be best if we went our separate ways.”

 

* * *

 


	9. After the night before.

 

It was a bright autumn morning in Ithilien, about three weeks after Shagrat’s impromptu departure from the palace.  Eowyn, as she was now wont to do, was pacing out the floor-space in Faramir’s library, berating herself soundly for her role in her husband’s current condition.

“But he has been so desperately ill,” she insisted. “How can you still assure me that these effects have nothing to with the events of – of that night?”

Hrodgar, who was her advisor, commented that it was not the first time that Faramir had been affected by such similar symptoms.

“And what do you mean by that!” Eowyn asked hotly.

“I am speaking of his Highness’ – illness, incapacity – call it what you will – the lasting infirmity that afflicted him after the siege of Minas Tirith, and which necessitated such a - _prolonged_ \- stay in the Houses of Healing.”

On hearing what she perceived to be a slight to her husband’s courage, Eowyn coloured up and rushed to his defence, reminding Hrodgar that her own recuperation following that battle had taken quite as much time.

“The point I am making is that your Ladyship’s injuries were, by and large, bodily hurts.  Whereas in your husband’s case – well, even then there was – shall we say - evidence for a certain fragility of the mind.  That this relapse has occurred so quickly is no great surprise – not for any person already experienced in treating cases of this type.”

“I say this with the utmost respect for his Highness,” the old man added after a moment.  “But you must remember that your husband is not at present himself – and by that I mean his own, true self.  If he had been allowed to rave unchecked, he might have sunk so far into his derangement that he would have been lost beyond hope of recovery.  Consider the plight of your Uncle, Theoden King.   If we  had only been granted the foresight to act, at those first, earliest signs of infirmity in him  –“

This was a painful reminder of a subject that would always weigh heavily upon her, and Eowyn stifled a low groan. “Even so, ought not we to send to Minas Tirith?  I have thought of little else these past weeks.  Perhaps the King would be able  –“

“We have already discussed the possible ramifications, should your husband’s predicament become generally known.  Rapid treatment, care and treatment _exactly_ as you and I have been providing is of paramount importance.  And – you have continued to administer the doses exactly as we discussed, have you?” Hrodgar added, as if it was an afterthought.  “The daily doses of the – _preparation_ I prescribed for him?”

Eowyn nodded absently, not even thinking to question Hrodgar’s judgement in this. “He has been too distracted of late to know what type of medicine he has been taking.”

Considering its general effects, ‘medicine’ was a disingenuous term for the powders Hrodgar had been dispensing, but the old man didn’t correct Eowyn’s mistake.  He had entered knowingly into his current course of action even if his naive accomplice had not, and continued to entertain few regrets about his conduct, if any.  This wasn’t because he was an evil fellow or even a particularly disagreeable one; his motivations were far from being anything akin to that.  

He loved Eowyn as a daughter – that was the truth of it, and had long nursed secret ambitions on her behalf.  She was too inexperienced to see it for herself, but Eowyn, as Faramir’s natural successor stood to gain in power immeasurably as a result of her husband’s current incapacity. Hrodgar was determined to assist her rise in standing in any way he could.  

As for Faramir, the old man hadn’t had the chance to get to know him well enough to come to feel either like or dislike for him, and since the royal couple’s parting his opinion of the Prince had necessarily fallen – it had plummeted, in fact.  Hrodgar was unaware of the circumstances surrounding their marital break and so naturally assumed that Faramir, given his apparent and disturbing new obsession for his Orc, had been the instigator of it.  For that heinous slight to his Lady if nothing else he intended to have his revenge.

“That is excellent news,” Hrodgar beamed at Eowyn.  “Prophylaxis, administered before the malady has properly taken hold always offers the best prognosis - in cases I’ve seen of this sort.”

“You are sure then that you have treated symptoms of this type before?” Eowyn asked, in a rush.  It was far from being the first time she had asked her advisor this same question, but she craved the old man’s reassurance.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Hrodgar prevaricated.  “And his Highness’ condition now is -?”

“My husband is sorely weakened, still.  But he is well enough to be sitting up and – writing, in his study.”  What Faramir was writing was something Eowyn did not at that point particularly want to think about, much less discuss.

She would have to talk about it with someone eventually, though.  The stress of being party to Faramir’s outrageous aspirations had taken its toll and she needed a sympathetic shoulder to lean on; someone on her side, who would be a reliable source of support.

“He says that – he says he plans to advertise!” Eowyn blurted out.  “Since he has tried and failed so often – finally accepting that he cannot retrieve the foul creature for himself, he has resolved to use any other means at his disposal.  And this is all because you and I by our actions have rendered him all but impotent in that respect!  Now he wishes to offer a reward for the safe return of the beast – he is composing the notices as even we speak and they are to be sent far and wide.  Our shame and degradation will be written plain for all to see!   With this he will forever link himself - inextricably, irrefutably - to that dreadful brute!”

Hrodgar considered what she’d told him.  In all of his lengthy experience in politics he’d learned that there was very little in the way of factual information that could not be turned about - or even entirely on its head - given an appropriate amount of spin.  The trick was merely to find and select the correct approach, the one that would make the bitterest of factual pills seem most acceptable.  In the light of that this one was almost too easy for him.

“The idea is not entirely without merit,” the old man said.  “Consider if it was perhaps to be couched in different terms.”

Eowyn asked him what he meant.

“Your husband wishes to find one particular Orc,” Hrodgar explained.  “What if, during the course of his searching he was to locate more than one – or even many?”

“What would be the use in that?” Eowyn retorted bitterly.  “A single Uruk-hai invading my home is assuredly one more than I would ever care to deal with.”

“All of those dark creatures, the Orcs and Uruks, were cowed and broken by the fall of Mordor,” Hrodgar explained.  “For a time, everyone believed they had been beaten down and that we had seen the last of that dreadful race but it seems they have grown bolder since those days.  Numerous sources have it that they have congregated in the south of the country, and that they are flaunting themselves there openly, especially in the regions near Harad and Khand where their kind could ever walk abroad unmolested.  It is a burgeoning problem, for those fiends – by their nature - must surely be wreaking havoc far and wide.  What I have in mind is a bold campaign seeking to rid Gondor of the last of the Orcish scourge of Mordor – a campaign instigated by his royal highness, the Prince of Ithilien.  That is what we should aspire to, do you see?  If successful it would bring you – I mean your husband - fame and glory surpassing all that has gone before!  Whoever accomplished it would be a hero of the people, make no mistake.”

Eowyn regarded him wryly.  “Faramir is no fool,” she said.  “As he has so clearly demonstrated by his recent conduct he cares but little for his reputation – and even less for the trappings of celebrity.  He would never agree to such a scheme.”

“If you offered to help,” Hrodgar suggested, “thereby distracting him from our true purpose, I am certain it could quite easily be accomplished.”

“He knows my feelings only too well,” Eowyn countered doubtfully, “and is unlikely to ever believe I would willingly be any party to this.”

“My Lady, you could easily sway him!  You have at your disposal all the means necessary for persuasion.”

“But I would be deceiving him - behaving in a manner entirely bereft of honour.  In good conscience I could never do that.”

“It is the only way to avert the catastrophe that you have foreseen,” insisted Hrodgar, “ the only solution I find myself able to think of at this time.  What other thoughts have you on the matter?”

“I – I cannot yet say.”  Eowyn turned away so that Hrodgar would not see her too-evident disappointment.  She had dearly hoped for better counsel from him.

The old man was also well aware that Eowyn had asked his advice as a last resort, and had no better plan of her own to offer.   She would, he knew, spend some time vacillating over the rights and wrongs of the matter but he knew her, and trusted that eventually she would make a rational choice.

**

And so she did.  Later that day, in the evening, Hrodgar was summoned for counsel in his lady’s chamber.

“I have just spoken to him about it,” Eowyn said breathlessly, “and he seemed only too eager to accept my help!”

“You’ve made a wise decision my lady,” Hrodgar nodded gravely.  “It takes bravery to embark upon a course such as this, and I must say by your actions you will be saving your husband, as surely as you would if you had set out to rescue him from some mortal peril.”

Eowyn smiled back, excited in spite her own misgivings.  After weeks of self-recrimination and worry, having a definite course of action to embark upon had settled her, allaying some of the mental turmoil that had beset her since her return to Ithilien.

“And here is the information that Faramir wishes to be distributed,” she said, handing over a document written in ink in Faramir’s cramped and looping script.

Hrodgar read the material carefully through, twice.

“Your husband writes here that he is offering a handsome reward for information on the wheareabouts of...Orcs,” he said.   “We needn’t be specific, and can very usefully emphasize that aspect of his campaign.  That’s all along the right lines.  As to the rest  -” frowning, he set the paper down on Eowyn’s writing desk.  The old man took a quill pen and loaded it with ink, then drew a line through the writing at the bottom of the document, decisively crossing it out. 

He answered Eowyn’s questioning look.  “Your husband has gone into far too much detail about this ‘Shagrat’ character, when he ought to have been being concise.  All I’ve done is to excise much of that irrelevant content. ”

“But Faramir’s bound to object!” 

“Realistically my Lady, there’s only a limited amount of space to be had in the composing of any ‘reward offered’ poster.  Like this it’s better.  More to the point.  Rest assured we were always going to have to edit it a bit.”

 

* * *

 


	10. The series of flashbacks continues.

 

Far away on a mountainside in the south of Gondor, not long after Eowyn and Hrodgar's conversation had taken place, the smell of the Hobbit’s cooking was making Shagrat’s mouth water.

 He still had a number of half-dry strips of venison, unappetising remnants of his last kill, secreted in the lining of his cloak.  Anaesthetised by the effects of Azof’s grog, he began to get to his feet to collect them.  The shooting pain from the injuries in his side doubled the old Orc over and afterwards he stayed exactly where he was, waiting for it to subside.  Ludlow, busy with whatever culinary enterprise was currently engrossing him noticed nothing and after a moment bustled over to Shagrat, proffering a large bacon sandwich.

The Warg stood up quickly too, its attention fully focussed on the Hobbit, and deftly caught the sandwich that Ludlow tossed its way in its jaws.  Shagrat noted that it too had sustained an injury and was limping heavily.  He called it over and examined the damage: there was a deep slash down one of its fore limbs and the pad of its foot had been skewered through, no doubt by Azof’s - or possibly even Dokuz’s blade.  The wounds had bled clean and the Uruk, knowing of no better antiseptic, sloshed them liberally with a measure of the Orc-draught from his cup.  As the Warg bared its teeth and laid its ears flat at him he bandaged its injury with a strip of leather torn from the hem of his jerkin.

Shagrat realised to his dismay that neither he nor the Warg would be able to hunt like this.  “You should go back to wherever you came from,” he advised the Hobbit.  “Winter’s coming.  You don’t want to end up stuck out here with no board and lodgings.”

“What are you going to do?” the Hobbit asked.

“I’ll find somewhere to lie up till Spring,” said Shagrat, with an easy confidence he by no means felt.  “I can rustle a couple of cows or sheep or something to tide me over.  I’ve done it before.”  Circumstances had indeed forced him to try something similar in the past. This had not ended at all well for him.

“How did you hurt your leg?” Ludlow asked suddenly.

Barking out a harsh, humourless laugh, Shagrat said - “it was when I was trying to rustle a couple of cows or something to tide me over last winter, wasn’t it?  Never said I was any good at it.”   Then he explained to the Hobbit what had happened -

**

Shagrat cast about the fields in desperation.  It had taken him two long days to make his way down from the high mountain pass where Dokuz and the others had taken his weapons and left him.  The pickings had been very slim indeed for Orcs after the end of the war, and he couldn’t remember when his last proper meal had been before that.  

Night was falling and he could smell snow on the wind – indeed a few wet flakes were already swirling about in the cold evening breeze.  If a blizzard started, he would be stranded until at least the following morning and nowadays, farmland was not a particularly safe place for Orcs.  He’d expected there would be livestock - a risky prospect, for even farmers had grown bold enough to hunt down and slaughter Orcs in these difficult, unsettled times - but on the other hand domestic animals were easy to catch, and even unarmed and in his weakened state, Shagrat knew he would be able to dispatch a farm animal without too much trouble.  It has to be said that the Uruk’s knowledge of agricultural practices was hazy at best, but it wasn’t winter yet, and he’d been certain that there would be livestock grazing up in the high pastures.  The animals had been there, not long ago; there was evidence enough of that, but now the hillsides were empty and quite deserted.

The Uruk made his way into the shelter of a stand of trees.  The wind had risen and without his outer clothing, boots and gauntlets – items of which he had been relieved by Dokuz’s gang - the cold cut through Shagrat like a knife.  Once he was out of the wind he immediately picked up a strong, compelling scent and followed his nose to a clearing in the middle of the clump of trees.  The side of goat flesh that had attracted him was greenish with age - air-dried almost all the way through, but even so the sight of it caused Shagrat’s stomach to contract painfully and he began salivating at once.  The meat had been hung high up off the ground, well out of reach.  It was obviously intended as bait for directly beneath it was a large steel-jawed spring-trap, loosely covered with twigs and leaf-litter.

*******

“I knew it was a trap, of course,” Shagrat told Ludlow after a moment.  “I’d hurt my hand, but I still thought I could get up at it.  I wouldn’t have gone after it if I hadn’t been sure I could.”

“Then what happened?” Ludlow breathed.

“Fell out the bleedin’ tree, didn’t I,” the Orc said simply.

*******

Shagrat felt the branch he was clinging to give, sickeningly, under him the instant before it snapped.  He twisted frantically in the air, trying to break his fall and hit the ground heavily, first with his shoulders and then his buttocks.  He remembered the bear trap the split second before his legs came down and for a moment thought he’d been lucky enough to clear it, but then there was an awful stomach-churning, metallic and bone-crunching impact.  The pain did not come at once.  At first there was only a terrifying sensation of intense pressure, as if all of his right leg below the shin was being gripped in an enormous vice.  He’d drawn breath to scream before it properly started but when it did hit him the severity of it drove every bit of air from his lungs.  Retching and gasping helplessly, he blacked out for a merciful moment in shock - but came to roaring in anguish.  Half out of his mind with pain and in panic he clawed wildly at himself – at the trap – and the ground, as he frantically tried to free himself -

***********

“You get the general idea,” said Shagrat.  “After that a bear came, and my eye –“ he broke off quickly and shook himself, trying to stamp down on yet another unpleasant memory.

“Well that’s no good then,” Ludlow tutted, “that sounds much too dangerous.”  He thought for a moment, then suggested brightly: “have you ever thought about looking for rented accommodation instead?  I bet we could find an inn or something where they’ll be more than willing to put us up.  Better get a place that does meals all-inclusive, too.  That way you wouldn’t have to rustle anything, not if you didn’t want to.  Winter’s off-season - I shouldn’t expect it’ll even cost all that much.”

The Orc muttered that he hadn’t any money; a relevant point that wasn’t the real reason for his reluctance.  After being caught in the trap and the bear, he’d fallen into the hands of a travelling showman - the fairground Barker, who had exhibited Shagrat up and down the country, more often than not at wayside taverns, where his suffering would routinely be exploited as a source of public entertainment.  The associations that Shagrat had formed with those types of venues were all unpleasant and he would have been happy never to set foot in another one of them again.  Not wanting to admit any of this to the Hobbit, he said shortly:

“They don’t let people like me in inns,” which was also true enough.

“That can’t be right,” insisted the Hobbit.  “When was the last time you were in one?”

After a moment, the Uruk told him.

**

It was evening on the day that Faramir had acquired him.  Soaked to the skin and begrimed from the dirt of the road, the royal party had arrived at a coaching tavern where they intended to spend the night.  The Prince and his personal advisors went inside to arrange their accommodation, with Shagrat and the rest of the royal retinue following behind.

There was a rough-looking fellow - the tavern’s cellar-man, lingering just inside the entrance to the building.  As Shagrat and the others approached he extended one heavy arm across the door, blocking the Uruk’s way.

“No Orcs inside the premises,” he said, and spat at Shagrat’s feet.  “We’re not having any of that filth in here.  Stable it round the back if you must, but be sure and keep it away from the other livestock.”  

Meeting the man’s eye, one of the royal aides gave him a brief nod of approval, commenting that he thought that would be a capital arrangement.

From inside the tavern Faramir turned back to see what was causing the delay.  As the two aides who were with him hurried the Prince further into the inn, the travelling companions remaining outside closed ranks smartly around Shagrat, calling out that they would be glad to attend to the Orc themselves.  It was a neatly-accomplished manoeuvre.

Seeing the familiar expressions of loathing and disgust that were clearly written on their faces, Shagrat had come close to entreating Goldilocks not to leave him at the mercy of those men.  The plea had been on the tip of his tongue but Shagrat had bitten it back, stifling the words in his throat. There was, in the Orc’s opinion, every likelihood that Faramir would have left him to his own devices no matter what Shagrat himself wanted, or said.  On asking for Goldilocks’ help in the past he’d been met with derision, contempt - and worse, and from bitter experience the Orc knew that complete indifference was likely to be best response he could hope for.

By Shagrat’s reckoning his best chances of survival lay in keeping the lowest of possible profiles - in causing minimal annoyance to Faramir and his men.  So he had gone with the royal aides, meekly following them down into the stable yard.  Not daring to openly misuse their master’s new favourite, they had nevertheless treated him with all the casual brutality that the Uruk had come to expect from the people he encountered these days.  They leaned him against a hitching post and had him strip, after which they’d doused him with a bucket or two of water and then, being unwilling to actually lay hands on him, ordered him to clean his filthy body, watching in amusement as he inexpertly attempted to wash himself.  After that they’d gone indoors, taking his clothes – which they said were fit for nothing but burning – and left him outside.  Shagrat, knowing better than to try to accompany them, had made his way across to the stable block.  It had been raining for much of the day but the night sky had cleared of clouds and though it was early summer, to Shagrat it felt bitterly cold in the dark.

The horses shied and stamped in their stalls, as horses usually did when they sensed there was an Orc abroad, but quietened eventually.  The cape that Faramir had lent him earlier in the day, now muddy and damp and reeking of wet wool, was still clutched in Shagrat’s hands.  He had held on to it like a lifeline despite the best attempts of the royal aides to prise it off of him, and now he spread it out in one of the empty loose-boxes.  Thankfully he noted that the straw that lined it was both dry and relatively fresh, considerations that taken together qualified this accommodation as being some of the best that the Orc had been provided with in months.

Shagrat was wrapped in his cloak, resting down in the straw, when Faramir came to find him later that evening.  The Uruk was only dozing fitfully and started up immediately at the Prince’s light step. His face radiated such simple honest pleasure when he saw Faramir that for a moment his fearsome countenance softened oddly, and he looked startlingly different.

Then apparently he remembered himself.  His head went down and his shoulders hunched up warily.

“Shagrat!  What are you up to?” called Faramir softly.  He felt strangely touched by the Uruk’s obvious happiness to see him.  “What on earth are you still doing out here?”

The Orc had made the mistake of believing that he and Faramir shared some kind of personal feeling between them once before.  Only once: then Faramir had turned on him with such scorn and fury that the shock, coming as it had at a time when the Orc’s natural resilience was running at a particularly low ebb, had nearly broken him.  The first tentative tendrils of trust that Shagrat had so hopefully extended towards his Prince had withered instantly, scorched to the ground by the ferocity of the young man’s contempt.  Shagrat had been taught a lasting lesson by that painful experience and had no intention of being caught in the same trap twice.

“Nothing.  I’m not up to anything,” Shagrat replied warily.  Then quickly reconsidering, because he thought knew the rules of the game they were engaged in of old, he added: “should I – what do you want me to be doing?”

**

“As if I didn’t already know full well,” Shagrat scoffed.  “But I remember what’s he’s like, and you can bet he was never going to come out and straight-up ask for what he’s _really_ hankering after.   Let on like he only wanted to make sure I was all right - tip-toeing round and pretending he wasn’t gagging for it, same as always.  I wasn’t going to fall for that though, thought he must just want me to –“ he broke off and looked sharply at Ludlow, who, he was relieved to note, did not appear to be following all the specific details of the tale he was relating.  “But he never tried anything on,” Shagrat continued, and there was a definite note of wonder in his voice.  “Even after I offered it up to him on a plate.  Not that I could’ve stopped him you understand, the state I was in, but - he stayed all night and he didn’t make me do a thing.  He just – just sat, and watched with me.  I couldn’t believe it.  Someone like him sleeping rough, out in a stable.”

“Who’s ‘him’?” Ludlow asked innocently.

“It’s none of your sodding business,” snarled Shagrat, which more or less ended that conversation.

 

* * *

 


	11. A failed resolution.

 

Out on the mountain, the Orc glowered into darkness.   Shagrat’s ability to suppress his emotions was impressive: he would never have lived for as long as he already had without it, and since leaving Ithilien there were a number of subjects that he had very deliberately been putting out of mind. 

His recent conversation with the Hobbit had brought everything back to him and now he felt as if he’d been tricked – if not by Ludlow exactly, then even more depressingly, that he’d foolishly tricked himself.  Shagrat missed Goldilocks dreadfully  - that was the root of it, and with that great wave of sorrow and longing for the Prince washed over him.  The decision to distance himself from Faramir that he’d made soon after their reunion had, predictably, failed.  All that Shagrat could say in his own favour about this (and it wasn’t much) was that he hadn’t succumbed to the Prince’s charms overnight.  Even then he’d started falling for him again almost immediately and in spite of having seen the trap, and recognising the danger posed to him by Goldilocks, he had rashly ignored all the warnings that previous experience ought to have taught him.  In no time at all he was as head-over-heels for Faramir as he ever had been and as he thought back over his recent conduct the Orc was dismayed to realise how very easy it had been for him to forget.

Years ago in Mordor, Shagrat had allowed his then prisoner Faramir to escape and he had been sorely punished for it, his fond recollections of the young man being instrumental in the torments that were devised for him.

At the time Shagrat was no stranger to bodily hurts and had frankly, an extremely high tolerance for physical pain.  Mentally robust – admittedly within a rather narrow remit of Orcish experience – the disgraced Captain was also well-equipped to deal with a certain type of psychological challenge: though the horrors he’d seen, been party to and experienced first-hand were of a kind that would have been likely to unbalance even the sanest of normal people they were grist to an average Uruk’s mill and Shagrat, accordingly, had taken them all in his stride.

The Orc’s problem was that the tender feelings of warmth and companionship that Faramir had engendered in him were unlike anything in his previous experience and he was completely at a loss to know how to deal with these troubling, worrisome new sentiments.  His jailers, recognising this weakness exploited it ruthlessly, using it to hurt him over and again until at last under extreme duress his emotional responses simply closed themselves down.

Considering the circumstances Shagrat was facing at the time this was a highly efficient survival mechanism – as it had had to be – and it worked so well that for a long while there were certain portions of the Uruk’s past experiences that were blocked out of his reach, as inaccessible to Shagrat as if the events that occurred had actually happened to somebody else.  

Much later isolated fragments of the missing periods – all of them involving Faramir - eventually came back to him, but each returning memory worked only to fuel the Uruk’s overriding fear: of discovery, and that because of it he would be sent back for further torment.  He had suppressed all thoughts of Faramir vigorously as a result.

Given the lot in life of an Orc, Shagrat had never had much chance to feel or express caring sentiments, and any potential he might have possessed should have been utterly crushed by these experiences.  A few acts of kindness from Faramir had however achieved what even the best efforts of his torturers could not: within three days of their reunion, the carefully-constructed wall of Shagrat’s defences had suffered a major breach.

**

Bed-rest.  That was that was the best solution Faramir could come up with for the most pressing of the many problems presented him by his newly-acquired Uruk.  Simple bed-rest and lots of it, since it had become clear earlier that morning that in his current condition Shagrat wasn’t able to travel any further.  The Orc was obviously not equal to spending any more time riding on horseback, therefore their journey to Faramir’s home in Ithilien would simply have to wait.

The Prince and the Uruk had spent the previous night together in Shagrat’s stable-stall, secretly keeping watch on one another by turns.  Faramir as he fell asleep was vaguely aware that the Uruk, bundled up against the wall in his travelling-cape, was watching him intently, and each time he woke during the night, his first thought was to check on the welfare of the Orc.  The early signs the next morning had not been good.

“I can’t stand up,” Shagrat admitted, a little while after daybreak.  His voice and the look on his face were devoid of all expression.  

Faramir had asked him what he meant.

“I mean I can’t get up,” snapped Shagrat with substantially more emotion.  “I can’t stand up, pull myself up, or get over there.”  He gestured to the entrance to the stable.  “I can’t do any of that ‘cause nothing’s working, and I –“

He broke off and when he continued he was absolutely humiliated -

“And the thing is I - I really need a slash.”

“My goodness, is that all it is!” Faramir said, feigning exasperation to cover Shagrat’s discomfiture - as well as the quick stab of anxiety he himself felt on the Uruk’s behalf.  “I would never have thought you’d be bothered about something like that!”  Faramir hefted him to his feet, noting as he had the previous day that Shagrat’s weight was a good deal less than it should have been.  He helped him outside, propping him up by the side of the stable block and stood by discretely as the Orc relieved himself, ready to catch him if he showed any signs of keeling over.

The early sunshine had yet to take the chill off the morning air and it was cold outside.  As he waited Faramir was suddenly, acutely aware that although Shagrat was holding his borrowed cape close around his shoulders he was stark naked under it - quite inadequately dressed for the season.  He also remembered then how Shagrat had pitched forwards off the horse that he and Faramir had been sharing as soon as they’d stopped the previous night, and how he’d lain on the ground where he’d fallen for such a long time, apparently unable to move.

Faramir looked away abruptly, cursing himself for not having been more attentive.

“It’s no wonder you can’t keep to your feet,” he told Shagrat, in a voice harsh with self-recrimination.  “You’re injured!  You’ve no business being on horseback in that state.”

Shagrat immediately began shaking his head.  “Just give me a minute,” he protested, insisting that he was feeling much better already.  “It won’t take long - I know I’ll be all right in a bit.”

He didn’t look it.  He was clinging to the side of the building, apparently staying upright by force of will alone.  Peremptorily detaching him, Faramir steered him back into the stable and deposited him carefully back down in the straw.  He set off to find one of his assistants, his mind intent on making alternative arrangements when the Orc called after him.

“Goldilocks,” he said, licking his dry lips.  “Will I be seeing you again?”

Stopping short Fararmir exclaimed: “Shagrat!  Do you think I’m going to leave you here?”

“I don’t know,” Shagrat replied cautiously.  “Are you?”

It hadn’t occurred to Faramir that although his own attitude to Shagrat had so recently experienced an 180 degree about-turn, the Orc’s feelings towards him might not yet have had time to adjust.  It  was worrying, certainly, but there was not a great deal he could do just then to reassure him.  Faramir decided he would have to make it up to him later, that was all.

“I’ll be returning in due course,” he said.  “In the meantime I’d advise you to try and get some rest.  You look like you’re badly in need of it.”

Shagrat nodded briefly, not looking at all convinced.

After making a few careful enquiries Faramir was able to locate a second hostelry far on the outskirts of town, one that was much less discriminating in regard of its clientele than the local tavern.  

The new place he’d found was basically a bordello – but, as its proprietors were clearly much more interested in the Prince’s ability to pay for the room he wished to rent than they were about the specifics of who would be occupying it this looked to be an ideal arrangement.  That the bed-linen was for obvious reasons conspicuously clean, and that the management were incurious about his motivations to a degree that surpassed normal discretion were counted by Faramir only as advantages, at this point.

And so he set off to retrieve his Uruk but, as Faramir was finding out, nothing concerning Shagrat was ever simple.  There was definitely trouble ahead, for as he approached the stable block where he’d left the Orc, he became aware of a commotion going on just outside it.

A number of people were surrounding something that was pulling itself laboriously along the ground.  It was Shagrat.  The men were jeering and heckling at him cruelly.

As Faramir began sprinting towards them he heard Shagrat give out a single high-pitched scream. That spurred him on to run, faster.

“What d’you think you’re doing!” he shouted, snagging the nearest of the onlookers by the collar of his coat.  Faramir swung him round and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.  “Unhand that Orc this instant!”

The fellow he’d accosted was a big, rough-looking man, shaved-head bald and he caught Faramir unawares, with a head-butt that struck him viciously on the forehead.  Faramir staggered back a step, streaming blood and wondering if his nose had been broken and the man followed through, hitting him with a good right-hook about the jaw.  The force of it almost raised the Prince of Ithilien off his feet and he fell back, stunned.

“What’s it to you, eh?” the man demanded, bending down to shout straight into Faramir’s face.  He leaned over the Prince, menacing intent written in every line of his body, picked him up by his shirtfront and punched him hard in the side of his head.  “Running in here, shouting the odds….some kind of Orc-fancier are you?  Is that it?  Reckon what we do to some mangy Orc’s got anything to do with you?”

He drew his fist back, preparing to hit Faramir again but suddenly yelped out, swearing, and straightened up.  Shagrat had dragged himself over to him and had driven the point of the small clasp-knife he was carrying into the back of the man’s leg.  The townsman stood very still for a moment as Shagrat’s voice snarled up from somewhere around ground-level.

“Touch him again and see what happens,” he said.  “It’d be my bloody pleasure to hamstring you.”

“Don’t go jumping around too much,” Shagrat advised, grimly hanging on to the man’s trouser-leg despite the fellow’s panicky efforts to shake him off and he twisted the little blade viciously, for emphasis.  “The big blood vessel in your leg runs just in here. I don’t think you want to find out what happens if my hand slips.”

The man froze immediately, staying absolutely stock-still - but his hands remained twisted in the front of Faramir’s shirt which mean they had all come to something of an impasse.   Finally this was broken by the arrival of the Prince’s other travelling companions.  Alerted by the ruckus outside, they came streaming out of the tavern, weapons drawn in their hands.  At that the local rowdies in Faramir’s vicinity began discreetly falling back.

“Your Highness!” one of them cried, shocked by the sight of his master brawling, bleeding and lying in the mud. “What –“

Faramir shook his head quickly, wanting them to keep his title out of it.  “Clear these people away, will you,” he said, getting to his feet.

“We should alert the local militia,” another of Faramir’s assistants began. “This counts as heinous assault against your royal person, Sir –“

“That won’t be necessary,” Faramir told him.  “Just get everyone to move along.  I’m quite sure they have business of their own to attend to.”

There began a quick, whispered and one-sided conversation in which Faramir’s advisors tried yet again to convince him that the most prudent move he could make at this point would be to get rid of the troublesome Uruk for once and all.  To their combined dismay however, Faramir persisted in not listening to reason and waved his men away, after which they seemed only too glad to keep their distance.

Faramir staggered over to where Shagrat was lying, still half-slumped on his side.  He helped him to sit up properly, then sank down beside him.

“Where did you get the knife?” he asked.

“Palmed it out of your britches this morning,” Shagrat replied, cleaning it off and handing it back to him.  “You want to take better care of your stuff, you do.  Some people’ll nick anything.”

“So I see,” remarked Faramir dryly.  He looked the Uruk up and down, surveying the fresh damage. “Shagrat, are you all right?”

“Never better,” the Orc replied.

Faramir asked him if that was true, then why he’d cried out like that before.

“Oh - well,” Shagrat said cheerfully.  “Couldn’t help it. That big bugger got me one right in the kidneys when I wasn’t expecting.   Nothing to worry about - there’ll be blood in my water for a bit, that’s all.  It’ll soon sort itself out.”

Faramir was appalled.  “In that case, what are you finding to be so happy about?”

Shagrat grinned lopsidedly at him.  “Well, Goldilocks. I suppose that’s on account of you coming back for me, isn’t it?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”  Faramir replied tetchily.  It had been a long time since he’d been engaged in a fist-fight.  “Whatever did you think I was going to do?”

“I suppose I thought you must be getting fed up of me again,” muttered Shagrat.

Faramir had no answer for that.  Given past events it might have been a reasonable  enough assumption, from the Uruk’s point of view.  He was beginning to question his own motivations, wondering if he could ever regain Shagtat’s confidence when the Orc broke in on his introspection.

“Come on Goldilocks, let’s go and get some breakfast,” he suggested gamely.  “It’s been ages since I - and anyway, I could really do with something to eat.”

After they’d breakfasted Faramir ferried him to their new accommodation.  Once the Orc was installed in a stale-perfume-smelling feather bed he slept for a clear 48 hours, reviving only to drink copious amounts of water, and to clutch Faramir’s hand against his chest as he fell back to sleep.

**

Late in the evening of the third day Shagrat woke up properly.  Faramir had been ordering regular meals for him on the off-chance that he might want something and watched approvingly as the Orc ate every scrap that was put in front of him.  After he’d finished he kept gazing at him, as if he was trying to memorise every detail of his face.

“Not much too look at, am I?” Shagrat said, challenging him after a minute or two of this.

“You never were, if we’re being honest,” Faramir replied, noting the look of hurt and annoyance that flickered over Shagrat’s features when he said it.  When he’d known him before, many of the Orc’s most basic emotions had been fuelled by feelings of self-righteous indignation on some level and under the circumstances Faramir found his reaction encouraging, and a sign that Shagrat was beginning to return to form.  He pushed his luck, saying: “good looks were never your strong suit.”

“Oh!  Right.  Well you don’t have to tell me ‘cause I know I don’t have a lot to offer, either.”

“You’ve more than you think,” Faramir muttered under his breath, but the Uruk went on as if he hadn’t spoken, whether he’d heard him or not.

“So what’s it like being a Prince then.  I expect you could have your pick of anyone you wanted now, could you?”

“I have done – and quite a few times now, actually,” Faramir boasted.  “When I was appointed Steward of Gondor - before my marriage, that is - people were constantly throwing themselves at me.”

“What, you got to be a bit of a ladies’ man?” Shagrat exclaimed incredulously.  “You never.”  He stared at him for a moment.  “ _Did_ you?”

“My admirers were not restricted in their ranks to those members of the fairer sex,” Faramir retorted.  “Though it’s true they included legions of beautiful women, to be sure.  But there were also men, and Elves –“

“You’re having me on,” scoffed Shagrat.  “What, no Dwarves or Halflings lining up to cut notches on you bed-post either?  I don’t believe it.  You’ve never got your nose out of a book -” here he gestured at a stack of volumes by the bed, a collection that Faramair considered to be no more than a small, portable library – “long enough to have any truck with stuff like that.  Go on, when did you ever take time to go on the pull?”

“I didn’t have to,” Faramir replied blandly.  “For a while there I was being propositioned constantly -  both day and night.  Often - it simply seemed impolite for me to refuse.”

“That explains a lot,” said Shagrat.  “Since I’ve been wondering all evening how long it’s going to take you to make your move.”

Faramir sat very still.  “Such a – move, then, would not be unwelcome to you?”

“Not seeing as I’ve been waiting all this time for you to finally get round to it.”

“Those others,” Faramir said suddenly, in a rush, “much as it pains and shames me to say it, in all of my – my carnal experience – which is undoubtedly far more limited than I’ve just been exaggerating about - there’s only one person who’s ever meant the slightest thing to me.  That person has meant a very great deal - much more than I usually care to think about, in fact.”

“It’s your wife, the horse-fancier from Rohan,” nodded Shagrat.   “Yeah, you told me about her before.”  He added that Faramir didn’t have to worry, as he completely understood what he saying to him.

“No, you don’t,” Faramir insisted, urgently.  “There’s only been one person in all of my – not spectacularly extensive – experience that I’ve ever cared about.  Only one.  And as I said there have been women, and men, and even Elves, but – only ever one Orc.”

The Orc in question stared back at him.  There was a long silence.

Of course Shagrat couldn’t for a moment believe what Faramir had told him, but still appreciated the effort made on his behalf.  Thinking that would definitely do for starters, he ran the tip of his claw up Faramir’s neck, till he was tilting his head back by the point of the chin.  “So!  Better than Elves, you reckon, eh?” he growled.

Faramir, caught off-guard by this felt as foolish and giddy as he’d done when he was a lad of nineteen, back in the days when he’d first met Shagrat.

“That, assuredly, is _not_ the point I was trying to make,” he stammered.  “It would be akin to – well, it would be something like comparing apples and oranges, wouldn’t it?  But yes, curse you, I think so. From my point of view, most definitely _yes_.”

Needing no further encouragement, Shagrat enthusiastically began stripping Faramir’s breeches and underwear off him.  He was good with his hands and knew how to please, but it was not his technique or even his skill that made the difference to Faramir.  The Prince had shared his bed with a variety of partners over the years, more than a few of whom had been equally able lovers as Shagrat - and there were one or two who should, given a level playing-field, have easily surpassed him.  

Faramir, however, was biased.  He hadn’t lied about his feelings for Shagrat.  The Orc had been his first love – an unconventional selection, it’s true, but believing as he had for so long that he’d lost the Uruk - and under rather tragic circumstances to boot - it was almost inevitable that anyone who’d come after him would seem like a pale shadow of a replacement.  Given the high level of expectation that the Orc had to live up to it wouldn’t have been unreasonable for Faramir to have found himself sorely let down by him - yet he wasn’t, because Shagrat was everything he’d remembered, and more.  Faramir’s last rational thought before the pleasure Shagrat had brought him to reached its peak was a fervent wish to never have to do without him again.

The Uruk had been watching him through the throes of his orgasm with rapt attention.  The pupil of his good eye was fully dilated and he was breathing heavily, unevenly and through his nose; at the same time wearing a hungry look of helpless arousal that Faramir recognised very well.  Seeing it he felt his own cock - well-serviced and spent though it had been through Shagrat’s efforts - twitch painfully with renewed desire.  He’d never taken the time to find out what the Uruk liked all those years before, but was now intent on finding out.  He had a fairly good idea where to start and leaned in and pressed his mouth close against the Orc’s.

As he kissed him Shagrat’s eye fluttered shut.  As the Orc started to kiss back, hesitantly, for an instant he pushed his erection against Faramir’s thigh, nudging tentatively - but the movement was so brief and fleeting there was every chance he hadn’t intended to do it.  

Faramir recalled then that the Uruk Captain had always behaved in a way that had been quite unfathomable to him when they were together in the past.  He had been so overwhelmingly cagy and unapproachable that the young Faramir had rarely had any chance to reciprocate during their various sexual unions which - as far as a return of attentions went - had generally been distressingly one-sided affairs as a result.  It was clear now that Shagrat continued to expect – exactly nothing from him, but Faramir was no longer the inexperienced youth of those long years before.

Determined that they would not be starting any more nonsense of that sort he reached down and began a slow caressing of the Orc’s cock, adding his free hand after a moment because Shagrat, erect, was somewhat ...larger, than he’d recollected.   His swollen member stood straight up stiff, looking slightly ridiculous – and also looking, as ever, a little abraded.  Faramir scooped some of his release into his palm and smoothed it over the painful-looking head...and that was enough to finish Shagrat.  All at once he gasped into Faramir’s mouth, caught his breath, and climaxed.

To say that Shagrat was shaken by this wouldn’t have been overstating the point because afterwards he was trembling from head to foot, much too agitated to speak.  He was miserable - seemed thoroughly ashamed of himself until with a well-chosen word or two Faramir supplied him with a little careful reassurance.  Then he only looked pathetically grateful, and feeling sorry for him Faramir wondered, as he sometimes had before, what the poor creature’s previous experiences must have been like to cause him to react like this.

 

* * *

 


	12. Not particularly sweet mystery of love.

 

The Orc stomped off to bed shortly after his conversation with the Hobbit ended.  He lay on the ground among the pine-needles with his cloak – Faramir’s cloak – drawn up round his ears.  Sleep came to him quickly and with it inevitably, a dream of his beloved Prince.  It was a fairly faithful replaying of a scene that had taken place between them the day after their arrival at Faramir’s home in Ithilien.  For various reasons this had made quite an impression on Shagrat, because strictly speaking it wasn’t just sex with Faramir – enjoyable as that was for him – that had so affected him.

 Aside from one or two past lapses, that in his love-struck state the Orc was only too willing to forget about, Faramir was the only person who had ever made any kind of attempt to treat him decently, and at times even seemed to regard him as an equal - and even Shagrat didn’t think he was deserving of that.

After their master's return to Ithilien and on account of the Orc he'd brought with him, Faramir’s outraged household staff had been departing in droves.  More to get Shagrat out of the house and from under their feet than anything else Faramir had taken him on a tour of the palace grounds, citing a need for fresh air as the main reason for their afternoon constitutional.  Having difficulty keeping up with even the gentle pace set by Goldilocks, Shagrat searched for a convincing excuse for them to stop - but the sun was shining through Faramir’s still-bright hair and that was distracting him, so he could only come up with the usual reason.   When they were well out of sight of the great house, down in a mossy hollow by the river, he’d pushed Goldilocks back against a massive, thick-boled tree -

(‘ _Grey poplar’_ said a voice in Shagrat’s head - quite correctly – though he ignored it)

\- and knelt down, greatly relieved to be getting the weight off his injured leg.  Faramir asked him what he thought he was doing.

“Come off it,” said Shagrat, “if you weren’t planning to have your wicked way with me when you dragged us all the way out here, well – then I don’t know what.”  Busying himself with the front of the Prince’s breeches, he growled low in his throat as he made contact with Faramir’s blood-engorged member.  He gave the head of it one or two preliminary licks.

“Told you,” he said somewhat indistinctly a moment later, on account of his mouth being partially full of – well, Goldilocks.  The Prince groaned as the Orc swallowed him down into his throat, letting himself enjoy Shagrat’s attentions briefly.  There was no doubt about it; he was unfailingly enthusiastic when he did this.

“Wait,” Faramir said with impressive resolve after a few seconds, pushing the Orc away carefully, “wait.  You’re always putting me first, which is to say you end up - serving yourself – as an afterthought.  I won’t have you feeling you have to keep on doing that.”

Shagrat squinted up at him.  “Eh?”

 “Perhaps this time you ought to go first.”

The Uruk blinked his good eye rapidly, discomfited.  “Eh?”

“Perhaps” Faramir suggested, “I thought perhaps this time you might like to - show me, Shagrat.  Show me what you might do if you were doing this - to yourself.”

Feeling shocked, Shagrat rocked back on his haunches and stared at the Prince. “You mean you want to watch me?” he said.  “Not when –“ he hesitated, scandalised - and lowered his voice.  “Not when I’m playing with myself?  You don’t mean you want to see me pulling on my – my _privates_ , do you?”

Faramir nodded, his eyes bright with enthusiasm.  “Yes,” he said quickly.  He found it oddly arousing, the thought of watching Shagrat like that.  “I’d very much like to see that I think.”

The problem wasn’t that Shagrat was fussy; he was used to catering for his own needs.  This wasn’t something he indulged in often, but when he did a little judicious rubbing against whatever convenient surface presented itself was usually more than enough to bring him release.  The Orc was in the habit of treating himself with quite needless austerity in this respect, as he had done for years, and seriously doubted that the sight of his fumbling efforts would be anything close to what Faramir was expecting.  That, combined with the fact that he would probably end up bringing himself off in about ten seconds flat meant that his coming demonstration promised to be the very definition of an anti-climax.

So, he was muttering an excuse when the look on Goldilocks’ face stopped him short.  Seeing that his companion was for some unfathomable reason obviously keen on this made the Orc reconsider. Opening his leggings, he took his erection into his hand.  Not being accustomed to company at such times he was painfully embarrassed, and if - when he drew his member out - he wasn’t the hardest he had ever been, at least Goldilocks didn’t seem to notice.  Eyeing him apprehensively, the Orc gave his cock a few self-conscious pulls.  Even if not destined to be by nature, long life-experience had made Shagrat into a suspicious, exceedingly wary creature and his position now was so exposed and vulnerable that in spite of himself – in spite his feelings for Faramir - he couldn’t help but expect to find himself the victim of some malicious trick.

He closed his eye and waited for it but nothing terrible happened, so he stroked himself some more, moving his fingers over his shaft and pulling gently.  He was rewarded by a low appreciative groan from Goldilocks, who dropped down to sit close beside him.  If Shagrat was hoping for a little assistance from the Prince he didn’t get it.  Faramir just kept watching his manipulations so intently that the Orc, convinced he couldn’t possibly like what he was seeing shifted uncomfortably, wondering how he could get away.

Goldilocks surprised him again though.  From being beside him on his knees, Shagrat found himself deftly manoeuvred into position beside Faramir on his back.  The Prince propped himself up on one elbow, regarding him intently.

“I’d very much appreciate it Shagrat,” Faramir breathed into his ear, “if you would keep on ‘playing with yourself,’ as you just - so very eloquently - put it.”

The Uruk could hear the amusement in his voice and didn’t fully understand the joke but was now certain he was, in some way, being made a fool of.  He’d just drawn breath to swear resentfully at Faramir when suddenly, whatever protests he had been formulating died an immediate death on his lips.  The Prince had begun kissing his ear - playing his mouth over the pointed tip of it and the effect this was having on Shagrat was startling.  He knew about erogenous zones of course, but only in a rather abstract sense, having never had much attention paid to any of his own.  Goldilocks had found one of these long-neglected areas and was taking his time about exploring it thoroughly.

“Carry on,” Faramir murmured encouragingly.  “As you were, Captain.  Best be getting back to work –“  he broke off, definitely laughing now but trying hard to hide it and spluttered out – “pulling on - your privates!”  He pressed his face against the Orc’s neck and his shoulders shook with silent mirth.

Shagrat tried to snarl back at him but it was a lackadaisical effort.

“You think it’s funny?”

Faramir made a vaguely affirmative noise – and at the same time did his best to contain himself. 

“If you’re so clever the least you could do is try and help me out, or something!”

Shagrat, thoroughly disoriented by a cascade of conflicting emotions not limited to annoyance, confusion and arousal, was no longer in full in control of his faculties.  Apprehending the difficulty he was having, at last Goldilocks moved in to assist him.  He shifted closer, close enough to rub the length of his cock against Shagrat’s then gripped both organs tightly in his hands, over and around his companion’s hold on himself.   Faramir’s hands were very warm and the increased friction that he was generating as he rubbed their combined muddle of cocks and hands together quickly took effect.   It was an odd and intense feeling, to be pleasuring oneself and at the same time to be attending so intimately to someone else.  Too much all at once and it made him dizzy.  For a moment Faramir felt taken out of himself - as if he was looking down at himself and Shagrat as they lay together on the sun-dappled summer grass; as if he was seeing them from some altered vantage point, ever so slightly removed – with in front of his eyes a shimmering screen of soft shifting leaves -        

The sensations he was experiencing seemed almost to extend beyond the physical; in some way he knew that – wherever he was and whatever he was feeling, that the Orc Shagrat was there by his side, accompanying – truly sharing with him -

Faramir’s emotions, coming on top of the more material, bodily pleasures he was currently engaged in soon were overwhelming.

“Shagrat!” he gasped against the Orc’s throat.  To his amazement his companion was shuddering out a silent breath onto his neck, as he too found his release.

Faramir, dazed and confused by the strength of the connection he’d felt – was still feeling - towards the Uruk, stayed where he was, lying half on top of him.

“That was different,” Shagrat said quietly after a time, speaking into Faramir’s hair.  “I’ve never done anything like that before.  Not coming off that way with someone.  Together, I mean.”

Faramir could only agree with him.  He was still too shaken to reply and unfortunately Shagrat couldn’t see the expression on his face because he began back-pedalling at once.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said quickly.  “I just thought it was – well, it was nice, that’s all.  I expect – I bet it’s like that for your lot every time, isn’t it?”

“No,” Faramir told him earnestly, picking himself up and propping his weight on his elbows, “it isn’t.”  He wondered if was too soon to make his declaration to Shagrat, decided it probably was, and then went ahead and told the Uruk how he felt about him anyway.

Someone who didn’t know the Orc as well as Faramir did might well have been disappointed by Shagrat’s complete and apparent lack of reaction, but actually the signs were all there for anybody who knew where to look.  The Uruk’s face shut down completely at first and he darted a quick, searching look at Faramir, obviously not willing to believe his ears.  The Prince could see from the fresh hunch in his shoulders and the way he was blinking so rapidly as he wrenched himself away immediately after that he had been profoundly affected by the news.

Eventually he replied, but it was not to whisper sweet nothings back into his companion’s ear.

“I warned you about this,” Shagrat grumbled, clearing his throat.  Incredibly, he had chosen this moment to find fault with the flannel shirt he was wearing, one chosen especially for him by the Prince because of the warmth and heavy softness of its material.  True to form, he’d channelled his strong emotions and was now expressing them in a more familiar vein - by finding a surrogate he could gripe about.

Their combined orgasms had generated a copious quantity of sexual fluids.  Faramir’s clothing had absorbed their share, but Shagrat’s had undeniably borne the brunt of it.

“With leather, if someone’s spunked all over you you can just swipe it off,” Shagrat continued, “or wait till it dries then pick the crust away.  Look how this has soaked in now.  I’m never going to be able get all this jizz to come out.”

This graphically descriptive insight into Orcish standards of good housekeeping would have been unwelcome at the best of times, but coming as it did at such an inopportune, emotionally charged moment – well, that was just typical of Shagrat, and it stuck Faramir as being absolutely priceless.  All at once the tension and anxiety he’d felt, worrying that he’d said too much or the wrong thing drained out of him and he threw his head back and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Shagrat watched him, grinning uncertainly.  He didn’t mind being laughed at because Goldilocks was happy, and that was enough for him.  The Prince in his merriment had smiled confidingly – joyfully – straight at Shagrat, and when he’d done that the deep-etched lines of pain and sorrow and worry and tension that were permanently fixed around his mouth and eyes had simply fallen away, making him seem years younger.   The golden afternoon sunlight slanting down through the green branches above them had  gilded with bright colour the prematurely grey strands in his hair, and Faramir had looked for a moment very much as he had done during when he’d first encountered Shagrat.  And just as he had done then the Orc loved him, plain and simple.  It was never something he’d been able to cater for, or control.

**

A long way off in time and space from that moment, out on his mountain Shagrat smiled to himself in his sleep, contented for a while to be dreaming of his beloved.  He’d remember little if any of it, come the morning.

**

It might have been a coincidence but many miles away in Ithilien, at around that exact same time, Faramir was enjoying a very similar dream.  He was occupying Shagrat’s quarters, a move of rank sentimentality that had earned him further sighs of disgust from his wife, and he came awake with a gasp, aroused and alone in the Orc’s bed.  The quarter moon was shining right into his eyes and a sharp, fresh breeze, clean and cold and scented with frost and pine-needles draughted into the stale air of the bed-chamber.

The fresh air helped Faramir to clear his befuddled head a little and moving unsteadily, he got out of bed and stood up.  It was the first time that he could remember being on his own two feet in a long while.  He had a disjointed memory of being told that he was ill but couldn’t recall what was meant to be wrong with him and in his confused state was finding timescales overwhelmingly difficult to judge: it seemed like forever, and yet for no time at all that he had been confined to his sick-bed.

Crossing over to the casement he saw that the board fixed against the pane broken by Shagrat during his escape had fallen away and he hung his head through the open window, breathing deeply. Perhaps the unfortunate Prince’s system was adjusting to the regular doses that were still being administered to him in his food and drink - or possibly those poisons were losing potency over time.  It could be that the freezing air he was working in and out of his lungs might also have been helping, but whatever the reason, as Faramir leaned there breathing the night air, some of the dizziness and disorientation that had dragged down on him for so long began to subside.  

The heavy, stultifying mists that were typical for this part of Ithilien in autumn had also lifted and to his surprise Faramir saw that outside the trees in the moonlight were almost all bare of leaves, and that there was a rare winter frost white and glittering on the grass.  He shook his head in bafflement; when Shagrat had left him it had only just been the end of summer, surely?  How much time had really passed since then?

There came to Faramir as he stood at the window an overwhelming sense of connection with the Uruk, no doubt a remnant from his dream; a feeling that though they were separated for the moment, he and Shagrat remained in some way still very close.

“Shagrat?” he said into the darkness.  The link he’d felt, or imagined between them had been so strong that he wouldn’t have been surprised to have heard a reply, but he waited, and none came.  He just had the vaguest, fleeting impression of stars burning brightly as they did only at altitude, and then of the great distance that stood between him and his Orc.  Then it was gone and there only was a smell of bare rock and scree-slopes, carried down into Ithilien by the cold breeze gusting from the mountains.

**

“He’s somewhere high up, I am sure of it,” Faramir insisted.  “I’d wager anything he’s in the mountains – when he’s been caught he’s always been heading towards high ground before.  I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve thought of it.”

Eowyn and her advisor Hrodgar exchanged significant looks behind the Prince’s back.  Quite unexpectedly Faramir had joined them at breakfast that morning.  He looked gaunt and thoroughly dishevelled but was managing to walk upright - much to Hrodgar’s consternation.  His intention had been to put Eowyn’s husband out of action for a good deal longer than this.

Seeing him away from his sick-bed for the first time in weeks, Eowyn had been badly shaken by her spouse’s wasted appearance.  Even then, equating Faramir’s rise from his sick bed with a recovery from the sordid brain-fever that had afflicted him, at first Eowyn had been delighted to receive him. But then he had ruined everything, by starting to harp on again about his runaway Orc.  Would he never learn to leave that contentious subject well alone?

“Will you not sit with us a moment?” Eowyn asked, nervously watching Faramir pace back and forth, up and down the length of the breakfast-table.  He had been speaking over-agitatedly and was still unsteady on his feet.

“Yes, do take a seat before you fall down,” was Hrodgar’s snide aside.

“But are you still willing to help me find Shagrat?” Faramir said anxiously, ignoring him. “You gave me your word you would help me, before.”

Eowyn stared helplessly at her advisor, completely at a loss.  Hrodgar inclined his head slightly. “A relapse,” he mouthed very obviously, out of Faramir’s line of sight.

“Yes I will, as we – agreed,” Eowyn replied, hesitating only a little.  “But first my husband, I must remind you that of late you – why, you have not been yourself.  And now I am certain that you are trying to do too much.  It is too soon, Faramir!  You must remember to take your rest!”  She took his arm, intending to guide him back to his bedroom.

“I’ve had more than enough of that!”  Faramir shook himself free of her.  “I’ve dallied here for far too long!”

The Prince took his leave of Eowyn and Hrodgar then, telling them that he planned to make preparations for his immediate departure.  The unfortunate Faramir was better able to stagger than he was to walk as he made his way from the breakfast room.

After he had gone Eowyn turned to Hrodgar.  “And what is your counsel now?”

The old man quickly considered the alternatives.  Forcibly confining Faramir to his quarters would have been his preference, but he couldn’t imagine that  Eowyn would ever countenance something like that.

“I can’t see that it makes much difference whether we base ourselves here in Ithilien or not,” Hrodgar said eventually.  “The handbills are being distributed, and the reward already set.  Let us all travel towards the mountains, then.  We can continue our true campaign there equally as well as we can here.  And as regards your husband – well, perhaps the exercise will be beneficial to him.”

If Hrodgar’s plans proceeded as he meant them to, then assuredly, it would not.

 

* * *

 


	13. Plan B.

 

Shagrat woke late the next morning. 

Ludlow greeted him cheerily, apparently not at all offended by having been barked at the previous night, and in a tentative gesture of reconciliation the Orc offered up his stash of deer-meat for the communal pot.  As a result of this the Hobbit had been embarked upon an enthusiastic round of fresh cooking.  To Shagrat’s dry venison strips he had added a variety of strange vegetables (“wild onions!  Delicious!”) and oddly-coloured, late season mushrooms (Look, Shagrat!  Wood blewits!”) that he’d rooted round for in the hanger-wood on the mountainside.  Though he’d watched these dubious preparations with a leery eye, even Shagrat had to admit that the end result was worth waiting for - the Hobbit certainly knew how to cook.

After their meal the Uruk and Hobbit sat lazily, watching the glowing embers of Ludlow’s camp fire.

“You know, if you need money, we could do what those other Orcs were planning,” Ludlow chirped up after a while, resuming one of the subjects from their previous night as if there hadn’t been a break in the conversation.  “We could beat them to it.”  Taking Shagrat’s lack of reply as a sign to continue, he explained what Dokuz’s band had been preparing to do.

“Slaying giants, you say?” said Shagrat, once he thought he had the jist of it.  “Do me a favour.  What kind of giant-killer do I look like to you?  You must be off your rocker.”

“No,” Ludlow insisted, and told Shagrat that he was missing the point.  Apparently there was only _one_ giant left to deal with, since giants in general had been dying out across Middle Earth for many years –

“Just like all dark creatures are just now, and have been doing since the fall of Mordor,” Ludlow said earnestly, before remembering what kind of a dark creature it was that he was talking to. “Oh dear!  Sorry!”

Shagrat raised his eyebrows at him.

“Yes, well,” Ludlow blustered, continuing quickly to cover his faux pas.

In any case, the giant in question was almost certainly already dead, given the length of time for which the reward for his removal had been standing.  Dokuz and his band had met some crazy old coot in a pub who had told them all about it –

“In a pub?” Shagrat interrupted.  “That lot could drink in pubs?  Never got thrown out?  Didn’t anybody say anything about it?”

“Well – people didn’t seem too bothered.  So long as they were kept paying their way.  I mean I met them in a pub myself, to begin with!  Why do you ask?”

“Every time I’ve been in a pub some have-a-go pillock hero tries to lynch me,” Shagrat replied darkly. He prompted Ludlow to continue, and he did.

All that remained, the Orcs’ elderly informant had said, was for some fellow or fellows of stout heart with doughty natures - such as Dokuz and his Orcs obviously were - to tackle the ascent to the giant’s mountain retreat, where they would be able to collect tangible proof of the monstrous creature’s demise.  After bringing this token back they could collect and divide between them the reward that was still standing for its removal.

“So you know where to find this old geezer do you?” asked Shagrat, still puzzling over Ludlow’s use of the word ‘doughty’.

At this the Hobbit’s eyes welled up with unshed tears.  “That poor man,” he said.  “ _Such_ a sad story – him waiting all that while for someone to go into partnership with, then meeting with a fatal accident on the very night he found someone.  Tragic, really.”

“So who did he find?”

“Dokuz, of course!  Someone he could really _trust_.”

Searching Ludlow’s plump and honest face, Shagrat looked for some indication that he had any idea of the irony of what he’d just said.  Finding none he simply commented: “I suppose you saw all this for yourself, did you?”

“Actually, no.  It happened a bit before I met them.”

Even if it hadn’t been a hare-brained scheme to begin with, Shagrat patiently explained to Ludlow that their not knowing where to collect the ‘tokens’ - ie. the bits of dead giant - or where to take these things once they had their hands on them would most likely count as insurmountably significant barriers to their success.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that,” Ludlow countered cheerfully.  “ Dokuz’s lads have already been.  And as for the trophy -”

He undid the drawstrings of Azof’s backpack with something of a flourish.

The Uruk, accustomed as he was to the more gruesome sides of life, still recoiled visibly when he first caught sight of the horrible thing that was resting inside Azof’s haversack.  It was a huge – a really disproportionately gigantic - severed head, more than twice as large as Shagrat’s own, which meant that the creature from which it had been taken must have stood well in excess of fifteen feet high.   The head’s original owner has obviously perished a long time ago for it was in a partly mummified, partly decomposed state.   The dead giant’s blank eye-sockets glared dark and empty.  Its hair, and both ears were gone and its leather-like lips were pulled back, exposing a double line of massive, slab-shaped yellow teeth.  Dried and desiccated, obviously much shrunken from its original size, the wizened relic also bore an iron crown about its brow.

“Azof and Rukush were sent to get it.  They got back just before you found us the other night.  That was the meeting place, back at their camp?  We’d been waiting for them for ages and everybody was very excited – they were planning a special celebration and everything!” 

“What sort of ‘special celebration’?”

“Maz was going to cook up a festive meal of some sort – a nice roast dinner, I think he said.  It’s such a pity we weren’t there and missed it!”

Shagrat made no comment. For obvious reasons, Ludlow could count himself as very fortunate _not_ to have been included in the night’s festivities.

“Afterwards, Dokuz was going to take that thing -” Ludlow indicated the head – “to the town down the valley.  It’s the same place I met them.  In the pub there, you know?”

Even if the Hobbit’s plan didn’t seem quite as unworkable as it had done only a moment before Shagrat still had his doubts.  If the object in Azof’s pack really was as valuable as the Hobbit claimed, he couldn’t understand Dokuz having let go of it so easily and wondered why the others hadn’t come to reclaim it as yet.

**

Part of the reason for their delay was that after being chased some way off course by the pursuing Warg, it had taken Dokuz and his cronies time to find their way back to the main body of their band.

Given the filthy mood their leader had been in since they regrouped, Azof, very wisely, had decided not to volunteer any information about the fate of the spoils he’d been entrusted to carry.  Even then, later on after Dokuz found out about the loss of the trophy he reacted to news of the cock-up with a lot less than his usual vehemence.  He seemed strangely willing to let the matter lie.

“Why the blazes did you have to go and take the dratted thing wiv’ you when we went chasing after them lot anyway?” he asked Azof.  “Now we’ve gone an’ lost it.  You said yourself it weighed a frigging tonne.”

“Think I was gonna leave it ‘ere with this light-fingered lot, what’d nobble anything that weren’t nailed to the floor?”  Azof retorted incredulously.  “As if!”

Relieved to know that he was not being held personally accountable for his mistake, Azof decided that Dokuz could do with being needled a bit.  He was bored for one thing - eager for more violent action and also, it has to be said, a little disgusted with his leader, having witnessed Dokuz’s recent headlong flight from the Warg.

“What you plannin’ to ‘ave us do about it then, Dokuz?” Azof said.

“’Bout what?” Dokuz grumbled surlily.

“About the fact that your ‘old mate’ Shaggers is sitting pretty, Boss, wiv’ our booty what _we_ have first dibs on,” Azof replied.  “He’s up there on his own!  Only got that Halfling half-wit for backup.  What we waiting for?”

“I’ve got my reasons,” Dokuz said.

Azof challenged him to name them.

“Well, old Captain Shag-tastic’s come back from the dead at least once already, hasn’t he?” Dokuz said.  Lowering his voice, he superstitiously fingered one of the amulets he wore around his neck as he spoke. “You know years ago, back in Mordor, they gave him to a Nazgul to play with – and this is a proper _Ringwraith_ mind, one a’ the Nine, and we all know what they’re liable to do to a body.  Never come to wonder how a useless old toss-pot like Shagrat come to walk away from it?  Well, not _walked_ , exactly - not for the first few months after it was finished with ‘im, if the half the stories I heard about it was true, but you know what I mean.  Point is he came through it alive though, did’n’ee?  Now, who else you ever heard of has pulled something like that?  Can you think of anybody?”

None of the Orcs replied, so in due course Dokuz answered his own question.

“You can’t, cos there’s nobody.   _No-one_.  That ain’t right, and there were a lot said there was something well fishy about it back at the time.  Gave him a very wide berth on account of it.  Then, come the end of the war, back he goes to the Black Pits for the _second_ time.  Then word gets out he’s done for.  The Dark Lord Sauron,” Dokuz whispered, “was said to’ve done for ‘im _himself_.  But what happens next?”  He turned to Maz for an answer.

“Rumours of Shaggers’ death,” the little goblin said fearfully, “turned out to ‘ave been very greatly h’exaggerated.”

“Yes.  Bugger me backwards if he don’t turn up not long after an’ right as rain, more or less.  Like a proper bad penny.  And you all saw the state he was in.  I was pretty sure I’d done for him that last time we fought.”

“What, you’re never saying he’s invincible, anythink like that?”  Azof scoffed.

“Nah,” said Dokuz, perhaps not sounding completely convinced, but soon rallied. “Just supposing though - suppose that’s not really Shagrat, what’s come after us.”

“You _wot_?”

“Maybe it’s some kind of – of vengeful spirit what looks just like ‘im, instead,” Dokuz blurted. “Everyone knows you get spirits, don’t ‘cher, the higher up you go in mountains?  And that dog-thing what’s following it, that don’t look right to me either.  That’s never natural, out of this earth or anywhere like it.  I think we should just - leave it.”

“What I reckon it might be,” growled Azof, into the disbelieving silence that had fallen over the Orc band following Dokuz’s announcement of his surprising new theory, “is that you ’av somehow gone and found yourself a guilty conscience very late in life.  You must ‘ave, ‘cos if it ain’t that the only other explanation is you’ve come over all lilly-livered and now you’re bottling it.”

Dokuz screamed at him and dared him to say that again.  The loyal Rukush leapt to his feet, intent on supporting his leader’s interests while at the same time a number of the smaller Orcs immediately sided with Azof.  The round of in-fighting and factionalisation into sub-groups that this confrontation sparked off was more than enough to distract them all from Shagrat for the time being.

**

Over the next few days the Uruk and Hobbit made their way down from the mountainside, travelling slowly and without any major incidents.  They arrived at the edge of the little township Ludlow had spoken about on an overcast afternoon and spent some time lingering on the outskirts there.  Nobody had accosted them, but Shagrat was still in two minds about carrying his companion’s tenuous plan through and he hesitated, thinking about the past experiences he’d had in out-of-the-way places like this.  After a certain amount of hanging about indecisively however, Ludlow commented mildly enough that -

“Dokuz and that lot were never bothered about it,” and that, for some reason, seemed to decide things from Shagrat’s point of view.

After that the Orc strode purposefully along, straight to the town hall chambers and let himself in with scarcely a backward glance.  Ludlow and the Warg scurried after in his wake, the Hobbit noting that the lanky, stoop-shouldered Uruk was attracting a lot of curious stares and interest in general.  The citizens of the border town they were visiting were accustomed to exotic-looking types however, and Shagrat’s party were allowed to go about their business.  

On entering the municipal building they were faced with a bank of chest-high, wooden desks topped with a long iron-work grille, each with a pale-faced clerk sitting behind.

“Here about the reward for killing the giant,” Shagrat said shortly, to the nearest of these fellows.

Their clerk was a rumple-haired youth, not old enough to be sporting a proper beard.  The dozy young man had broken off from scratching at his pimply chin for long enough to look up disinterestedly as they approached his booth.  He did a definite double-take when he caught sight of Shagrat and craned his head over the desk he was sitting at, the better to stare at the unlikely band of giant-killers who were standing in front of him.

His gaze drifted from the fearsome Orc down to the limping, pot-bellied wolf-beast that accompanied him, and rested for a moment on the shortest member of the company.  It was an odd-looking creature, of a species not immediately familiar to the Clerk, although he knew he had heard of something like it before. The short one beamed back at him.

“A one-eyed Orc and a three-legged Warg?” the Clerk said, incredulously.  “Is that it?  Halfling doesn’t look like he’s all there either.  Haven’t any of you people got the full set of parts you was born with?”

“These two...aren’t really with me,” said Shagrat. “They keep following me about, that’s all - can’t seem to shake the bleeders.”  Quickly changing the subject, he said they believed there was a reward on offer for the relief of a giant-related problem in these parts?

“....I’ll ‘ave to check in me book,” the Clerk said.

Ludlow and Shagrat and the Warg stood around the otherwise empty town hall building while the young man - laboriously – rummaged through piles and piles of yellowing, mildewy paperwork.  

“Well, yeah,” the Clerk announced eventually, and confirmed that there was a reward still standing - technically still standing - at any rate.  He went on to say that nobody had ever been able to claim it, “’cos you know where them giants live, don’t yer?  It’s just the other side of the Mountains of Shadow.  So close to Mordor if you lobbed a half-brick the right way you could hit it.”

“Oh no!  That would put anybody off!” squeaked Ludlow agitatedly.

“You’re right there.  You’re dead right.  Black Army’s gone now, but there’s still packs of wild Wargs an’ Orcs and Uruk soldiers roamin’ and who knows _what_ else besides.”  At that the Clerk broke off, perhaps beginning to think properly for the first time about the various dark and diverse species that made up the group that was standing large as life, in front of him.

“Anyway,” he continued uncertainly, looking down at his ledger, “it says ‘ere we’re to tell to tell anyone that asks that -” here he paused to consult a note that had been written in block-capitals and pinned to fly-specked document, “’under no circumstances will any claim be considered unless it is substantiated by e-v-i-d-e-n-t-i-a-r-y c-o-r-r-o-b-o-r-a-t-i-o-n.’”

“Fair enough,” Shagrat said.  He untied Azof’s bag and emptied it onto the counter between them.

Perusing the browned and leathery relict the Clerk commented: “you’ve never killed him though. Looks like he’s been dead a _long_ time.”

“That,” replied Shagrat, “is neither here nor there.   So what about this reward, eh?  Hand it over sharpish and we’ll be on our way.”

The Clerk found himself faced with a novel situation that he neither the necessary experience, interest in or indeed inclination to handle himself and did what young people employed in junior administrative positions generally do at times like this.

“I’ll get me supervisor,” he said, and went to fetch him.

After another wait, a self-important-looking older man arrived and like his junior, spent some time appraising the Orc and the Hobbit.  The Warg-hybrid he tried to ignore, but the unique combination of species and personal attributes that other two of them represented were posing him with some unexpected conceptual problems, none of which would have applied if he had been facing either one of them alone.

Shagrat, as an Orc and an undesirable, would immediately have been shown the door, whereas the Hobbit would have been laughed right through it.  Together though, together they had – not an air of respectability or gravitas, that wasn’t it.  Not even close; but if nothing else they did make for a baffling combination.  The Supervisor was trying and failing miserably to work out which one (if either of them) could possibly be the brains of the partnership.

“I’m acting as his legal representative in this matter,” Ludlow said suddenly, showing a flash of perspicacity that if Shagrat had had the faintest idea what he was talking about, would have confirmed that the Hobbit perhaps at times understood slightly more of what was going on around him than he was in the habit of letting on.  “We’re here on official business.  I’ve been keeping a detailed record of our itinerary – kept a note of all the receipts and everything.”

On hearing this the Supervisor looked definitely disgruntled, probably because he had been hoping to fob the pair of them off.

“That’s what I do back home,” the Hobbit added, in response to a curious look from Shagrat.  “It’s the family business.”

“Is it?  Really?”

“In a way.  Well – no,” Ludlow admitted _sotto voce_. “I am grand-nephew to a Justice of the Peace though.”

What Ludlow said didn’t mean much to Shagrat since he didn’t know what a Justice of the Peace was and as to the rest of it, Orcs tended not to have much truck with familial relationships.  Shagrat, for example, had no idea who his parents were, and had never knowingly met either of them.

The Clerk and his Supervisor left them again, after which they were gone for a much longer interval.  As they waited Ludlow tried to catch the Uruk’s eye but Shagrat seemed intent on studying the intricate iron-wrought scroll-work that topped the counter as a security grille. At last the two men returned and the older one handed Ludlow a bundle of paperwork.  There were quite a number of people following them.

“What’s this?”  Ludlow exclaimed in dismay, riffling through the sheaf of parchment. “Land deeds? This can’t be it.”

“Standard giant-killing contract, I think you’ll find,” the clerk’s superior replied.  “Payment may be made in lieu at the payer’s discretion, and will stand at half the kingdom or equivalent land area - which in the case of this district comes to the five valleys on the other side of the Bald Mountain.  It’s in approximately the same location as the one where you originally obtained the – ah – evidentiary relict.”

There followed a long and disappointed sort of silence.

“If your legal representative would be so kind as to make his mark _here_ –“ the Supervisor said smoothly, indicating the place on a particularly thick piece of parchment, one that was already heavy with official-looking wax seals – “and _here_ , we’ll begin effecting the transfer of deeds to you directly.”  He held out his hand for Shagrat to shake, withdrawing it only when the Orc continued to stare and stare in bemusement at him.  “Congratulations!”

Some of the Supervisor’s colleagues and seniors had also come to witness the hand-over, and were complaining mutinously about the folly of handing over vast areas of mountainside and water rights - not to mention valuable timber resources - to random vagrants willy-nilly. Against this background of discontented grumbling Ludlow, having little other option duly signed on the dotted lines.  He was all but oblivious to the men’s complaining.  The little creature was much more worried about Shagrat, who he could tell without even looking was glaring and glowering at him, quite probably with murderous intent.

 

* * *

 


	14. Monarch of all he surveys.

 

 

“I didn’t think it looked that bad, not really,” Ludlow said tentatively, peering into the evening gloom.  

The fog that had drifted up from the valley bottom at sunset had obscured most of the vista that lay before them from view.  This was probably for the best.  Where there was woodland, the stunted, twist-limbed trees crowded together much too thickly, and elsewhere the landscape seemed to be made up of nothing more than rocky outcrops interspersed by rolling, brownish stretches of featureless upland plain.  A thin night wind had risen as the sun went down and was now snickering restlessly through the bare branches of the thorn bushes that bordered the narrow mountain path.

The whole place was beyond desolate, Ludlow thought.  He shifted his hairy, un-shod feet doubtfully, dislodging a cascade of rocks and pebbles that went rattling their way down into the gulley on the other side of the path.  After a moment a series of clattering echoes sounded from the depths of the ravine.  It sounded a bit like someone shouting and laughing in an evil, unknown language.

Thoroughly spooked, the Hobbit turned on his heels and scuttled back to the yellowish circle of lamplight cast by the lantern on their donkey-cart.  It wasn’t much proof against the darkness and he shivered, clutching tightly onto the lucky rabbit foot he carried in his jacket pocket.

Shagrat was still standing by the side of the wagon, staring into space.  His remaining eye was glowing with a feral light and he seemed to be shivering with barely-suppressed excitement.

“Not that bad?” the Uruk answered, and there was a strange note of exultation in his voice as he spoke.  “North facing, did you notice?  I think it’s bloody perfect!”

“You really - like it then, do you?” the Hobbit replied incredulously.

“Yeah!  Don’t you?” his companion sounded surprised.

“I don’t think it’s exactly my kind of place,” Ludlow explained carefully.  Quite frankly the wild and barren topography of what was now Shagrat’s very own private expanse of blasted heath gave him the willies.  He much preferred greener, more pleasant varieties of countryside.   “As a rule I suppose I’m more fond of, well, agricultural landscapes.”

“Agricultural landscapes?” 

“Where there’s farming.  Fields and hedges and stuff.”

“Oh, well,” Shagrat commented, “I shouldn’t think there’s going to be much of that going on here.  But looking on the bright side.  If it was any use to anyone they’d never have let you and me get our hands on it, would they?”

“They might have,” the Hobbit said bitterly.  “Because of that - and the land tax.”

**

Following Ludlow’s signing of the deeds of transfer back in the town, there had been a hastily cobbled-together social soiree of sorts, during which about a half dozen different local dignitaries had all taken great delight in informing the Hobbit that as co-opted owner of a huge (and hugely useless) tract of mostly inaccessible mountainside, he now owed the Crown of Gondor a not inconsiderable sum of money, all immediately payable as back-taxes.

“Because they’ve had to raise revenues these last few years to pay for the War,” one of the men had hiccoughed at him, quite late, as the evening wore on.  “And – this’ll make you laugh. They’ve decided it’s going to be charged according to size each landholding!  Rates have gone sky high.  You couldn’t have taken possession at a worse time!”

Ludlow knew for a fact that the Uruk, though he’d heard all of this had been deliberately pretending neither to notice, or understand why everyone was laughing at them.  But then he hadn’t attended much of the town gathering.  Having taken his Warg and a bottle of some kind of over-proof local spirit he had decamped outside, to carry on a ‘personal celebration’ as he called it in the town gardens -

“Drinking yourself silly, more like,” Ludlow sniffed, on finding him out there afterwards.  “You’re three sheets to the wind, Shagrat.   _Again_.  Have you had anything solid to eat as yet?”

Shagrat hadn’t.  Ludlow handed round the pocketful of sausage rolls he’d had the foresight to bring with him.

**

Next morning they purchased a farm cart and a donkey to pull it – both rather rickety but all they could afford, and armed with a map of the county provided by the councilmen, set off to have a look at their recently-acquired plot.  Initially there was a faint track-way they’d been following - not much more than a game-trail really, and unsuitable for wheeled traffic but justabout traversable by their tiny vehicle.   When that gave out they’d had to resort to good old-fashioned winging it.

The swathe of hillside that had passed into Shagrat’s ownership began at the peak of the mountain ridge that separated it from the more fertile Gondorian uplands on the southern side.  They arrived there in the evening of the second day, a short while before sunset.

“By any chance have you given much thought to how we’re going to manage to pay those taxes everyone says we owe?” asked Ludlow, as they began their preparations for the night ahead.  The thought of being in debt to anyone was worrying him sick.

“Oh, I expect something’ll turn up,” Shagrat said evenly.  His new-found optimism was starting to become quite unsettling.

When the next day dawned Ludlow had the chance to revise his first impression of the Uruk’s mountain domain.  It turned out not to be entirely comprised of open, rocky wasteland after all, because the hillsides were also intersected by a number of near-vertical wooded ravines.  A succession of thunderstorms had been raging for most of the night and to shelter from the howling gale that was now blowing out on the mountaintop, the Uruk and Hobbit decided to explore the nearest of these.  They picked their way carefully down over the massive rock-slabs and tumbled boulders that filled the upper reaches of the gorge, eventually coming to a wider, flatter area - a plateau or rock-shelf high on the mountainside.  The valley opened out noticeably here, so that a few rays of wintry rising sunlight were able to penetrate the sparse branches of the wind-blunted trees and shine down to the valley floor.

The rain had stopped during the night but it was still overcast.  What sunshine there was breaking through the clouds was weak, and yet somehow the whole of the little mountain grotto seemed to be shimmering with a bright-white, dancing light.  The watery sunlight looked like it was definitely reflecting off of something.  More accurately, it was reflecting off a very great deal of something.

“Shagrat, what’s all this silvery stuff?” asked Ludlow after a moment.

The Uruk searched for a moment, then spotting what he was looking for bent down and picked up a small, silver ingot from a pool of water at his feet.  It was about the size of the first joint of his thumb and was as light as pumice-stone.  The pretty little piece of metal had a familiar sort of shiny, sparkling quality to it that Shagrat was sure he’d seen somewhere before.

“It’s unusually light-weight, isn’t it?” Ludlow said. “Really remarkably so.  D’you think it could possibly be –“

“Nah,” said Shagrat quickly, “no chance.  If that was what this is, these valleys would be wall-to-wall Dwarves, wouldn’t they?  Never mind what else was living here.  Mad for that stuff, those half-pint hairy little buggers.”

“I don’t know though Shagrat.  There were Giants here until quite recently, weren’t there?  And afterwards I don’t think anyone came here much.  Everybody said this place had an evil reputation.”

“Can’t think why,” Shagrat said bemusedly, and he really didn’t seem to be joking.  

Ludlow felt a unpleasant, crawling sensation in his back and fought briefly against a superstitious urge to look over his shoulder to check that there was nothing unnatural spying on him in this fell and lonely place.  As the disquieting feeling increased, he quickly gave in to it.  His gaze took in the craggy moss-covered walls of the ravine on either side and then far, far above them, through the branches of the gnarly trees that crowded the sides of the gulley –

(“The haunted, frightened, trees,” Ludlow thought to himself, suppressing a shudder)

-he could see a patch of grey-black, definitely lowering sky.  And there was indeed something unnatural watching them.  It was Shagrat’s Warg, which was perched on a boulder higher up the valley.  The animal was staring intently at the back of Ludlow’s head.  It barked at him, then stood up and sat down again a few times in agitation, still barking continuously, almost as if it was somehow trying to warn the Hobbit of some danger – or approaching peril -

But what could a Warg know?  Clearly that would have been ridiculous. 

So at last Ludlow chucked a large piece of mithril at it to make it stop.  With a reproachful look the beast turned and skulked off, zig-zagging its way up the steep slope out of the valley.

“And,” the Orc continued, as if he was still trying to convince himself that they had definitely not just stumbled upon a vast and unsuspected resource of mineral wealth, “you can’t just go picking that stuff up off the ground.  You have to go mining deep in the earth, don’t you?   _Delving_ for it.  That’s why Dwarves are always stirring up ancient evils and that - by digging too far down for it.  Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“’Ancient evils?’” Ludlow repeated, worriedly.

“You know – things that’ve buried themselves deep at the roots of the mountains, hiding down there from the....light of the stars,” Shagrat replied hesitantly.  An odd faraway look passed over his face and then he pulled himself together abruptly.  “Ancient evils and all sorts.”

“Well, you may be right,” the Hobbit admitted, “but this is such a deep gorge - and it’s only got that tiny little stream running through it.  Doesn’t that means there must be a lot of water in it at other times?  Maybe all that – _silver stuff_ –  gets washed here from further up.”

Mordor, in the time Shagrat had lived there was effectively a desert realm, but even he had not failed to notice that the little stream that flowed down the bottom of the gulley was already bigger than it had been when they arrived.  

“So when do you reckon there’d be a lot of water coming down here, then?” he asked, as the first few fat raindrops of this morning’s deluge began to fall.

“Well I suppose about – this time of year, actually,” Ludlow said slowly, “especially after it’s been raining for….a long time….higher – up –“

The Hobbit and Uruk looked at each other for a moment.  They stood listening to an odd hissing, roaring and splashing noise that was rushing down the valley towards them, increasing in volume all the while.  

Left to his own devices Ludlow would tried and failed to outrun the flash-flood that was descending on them, but fortunately Shagrat kept his wits about him.  At the last moment he grabbed the fleeing Hobbit by the back of his coat and swung him up, boosting him high onto one of the side-walls of the gorge out of reach of the approaching wall of water.  The Hobbit hung on among the tree-roots as Shagrat clambered up after.

The Orc swore eloquently, shaking himself off and spitting out the fragments of leaf-mould that Ludlow was kicking down on him.

“Can you swim?” Ludlow squeaked hysterically.  His teeth were chattering and he was shivering so wildly that it was becoming difficult for him to hold on.

“Don’t think so,” Shagrat said.  “Reckon you can climb?”

The Hobbit shook his head, giving him a look of mute appeal.

Shagrat rolled his eye exasperatedly.  “Think you can you keep out of my way and hang on while _I_ climb us out of here then?”

Ludlow nodded, but made no move towards him.

“Grab on then,” Shagrat prompted, offering the Hobbit the broad expanse of his back, “what are you waiting for?  I’m not going to bite.”

More dithering, and then the Hobbit scrambled up and clung to Shagrat’s shoulders.

The Orc was not particularly limber or agile but largely through brute force was able to heave them up over the rocks to scale the walls of the ravine.  The point they eventually climbed out at was a way down the hill from the pass where they’d left their wagon and as they struggled to regain the height they’d lost, the rain turned to icy sleet.  When eventually they got back to their starting point he sun was already well past its highest point.  They were both wet to the skin from the driving rain and Ludlow in particular had become severely chilled.

Shagrat regarded the bedraggled Hobbit for a moment.  The rain and wet didn’t especially bother him but the little creature looked like he was in a bad way. “Come on,” he said after a moment, raising up his cape. “You can get under here if you want.”

Ludlow hesitated, and the corners of the Orc’s mouth turned down.  “I’m not going to do anything to you if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said shortly.   “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

Actually being manhandled by Shagrat was the last thing Ludlow had on his mind.  It hadn’t escaped the observant Hobbit’s attention that his travelling companion went out of his way to avoid physical contact  - he seemed almost to have a pathological aversion to it, in fact.  The Orc hadn’t for example coped particularly well when Ludlow was clinging to his back during their climb out of the ravine and had shivered him off with obvious relief the moment they were safe on relatively level ground.  But Ludlow was so cold and miserable by now that he almost didn’t care - and since an invitation had been issued, he surged the short distance across the wagon bench and snuggled, sighing happily, against Shagrat’s side.

Brusquely the Uruk pulled his cloak around to cover him, stiffening and gritting his teeth as he felt the Hobbit press close in beside him.  Ludlow’s trembling slowly abated as he warmed himself on the hot-blooded Uruk and by tiny increments, Shagrat eventually succeeded in forcing himself at least to partly relax.  He still didn’t much care for the enforced proximity, but supposed it wasn’t as bad as all that.

**

Afterwards the going was much easier as they were travelling downhill.  As they came down from the mountain the sleet gave way to rain, the rain to drizzle, and then the drizzle to heavy mountain mist.  At some point they must have missed their way or chosen the wrong fork in the road however, because they arrived at a mountain settlement just before dark.  

This village was smaller, and lay further up the mountain than the town they’d originally started at.  As they passed the outskirts of the village the rain started up again.

“Look here Shagrat, all our stuff’s got _soaked_ ,” Ludlow said.  “It’s right in the blanket-rolls and everything!  And, since we’re here a-n-y-w-a-y....” he broke off then, but there’d been a definite wheedling note in his voice.

Shagrat glared at him.  “What?”

“Mightn’t it be an idea for us to try and find somewhere to stay for the night?”

There was, as luck - or otherwise - would have it, a tavern in view just ahead on the road.

“I’m not sure,” Shagrat said warily, stopping the donkey-cart on the approach to the premises. “We don’t know the lie of the land hereabouts.  Must be a fair bit away from the border up here, mustn’t we?  They might not be used to seeing.... strangers.”

“What are you talking about?  It’s a wayside inn!  All these places rely on passing trade.”

“I mean....the people round here might not be used to seeing Orcs.”

“Oh, go on,” Ludlow insisted.  “We could at least go for a drink and get out of the cold for a while. It’s got to be better than getting rained on, doesn’t it?”

“So you reckon you’re sure they’ll be all right dealing with folk of – of my sort?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it!” Ludlow said.

And so they went in.  It was already stuffy and warm in the tavern, even though they were among the first customers of the evening.  To Shagrat’s relief when the woman serving behind the bar greeted them both as they entered she seemed to be hospitable enough.

“Master Hobbit, Mister Orc,” she said.  “What’ll it be?”

Ludlow mugged an ‘I told you so’ expression at Shagrat.  Still unconvinced he ordered a beer for the Hobbit and then named his poison, in Orcish.

The barmaid, quite unperturbed, turned and poured a measure of what Shagrat had asked for out from a dusty earthenware pot, making it a double.

The Uruk stared at her.  “You stock _that_?”

“Well, we don’t find we have Orcish gentlemen in so very often these days,” the pub lady explained, “but when we do they always seem to drink an awful lot of it.  We’ve found it’s worth our while keeping a few gallons in store.”

‘ _Orcish gentlemen_ ,’ Shagrat thought to himself incredulously, for it was without doubt the first time he’d ever been inclusively referred to being as anything remotely like that.  The rest of what the woman had said – about the drinking capacity of Orcs - sounded about right however.  

Taking their drinks, Shagrat and Ludlow retired to a table in an inglenook near the fireplace.  The stonework round the chimney-breast was warm from the fire and the coals in the grate cast a ruddy, comforting glow.  It did, Shagrat had to admit, beat being rained on.

The trouble started when Ludlow went to purchase the next round of drinks.  The patroness had left the bar for a moment and as the Hobbit perched on a bar-stool waiting for her to return a group of men from the village arrived at the drinking-house.  They stood blocking the doorway as they removed and hung up their wet rain-coats, talking and shouting excitedly among themselves.  There was a noticeable undercurrent of aggression and menace about the group.

An older, moustachioed man stepped over to join the Hobbit.  Greeting him amicably, he introduced himself Chief of the local militia.

“My!  Those fellows do seem to be making quite a lot of noise over there!” Ludlow piped up at him.  “Please could you tell me what all this shouting’s about, Sir?”

“Royal Edict little Master,” the Constable explained.  “Nothing for you to worry about!  Notice’s gone out to every town, village and hamlet in the country.  There’s a bounty, a king’s ransom offered, for – well see for yourself.”  He handed Ludlow the hand-bill he’d been about to post in the bar.

“They’re hunting down the last of the Orcs, aren’t they!” a second man exclaimed excitedly.  Taking up a place at the bar beside them he began expanding on the militia-man’s topic.  “Seems someone’s finally had the back-bone to take a stand.  Long live Prince Faramir, I say!  He’s the one behind it.” Ludlow turned the paper over and over in his hands.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Shagrat shuffling his chair further back into the shadow of the chimney-breast.  He had his shoulders hunched up and his hand covering his face and couldn’t have looked more shifty if he’d tried.

“It’s only a shame we didn’t get word of this before!” the excitable man continued.

“And why would that be?” Ludlow asked.

“Haven’t had time to round up any of those villains yet, have we?   Though we easily could’ve!  Some of that vermin have taken to coming in here sometimes, bold as brass – and he – “ he glared at the Chief of the militia darkly, “ _he_ says there’s not a thing he can do about it!”

“Not so long as they pay for their drinks and aren’t seen to break any laws,” the older man insisted, very red in the face.  “I’ve told you time and again.”

“Leastways we won’t have far to take them when we do get some!” the man cried, thumping his fist on the bar excitedly. “Royal party’s on its way through the province and word’s come in that they’re set up off the main road down the next valley, over on the south side.” 

“Now, what’s that you’re drinking there Little Master, eh?” the militia man said, peering suspiciously at Shagrat’s cup, which was waiting on the counter to be refilled.

“Was someone talking about Orcs?” the patroness asked loudly then, as she bustled back up to the bar.  She waved her hand in Shagrat’s general direction.  “Because the small gentleman was just speaking to an Orc, over there –“

There was a moment of dead silence during which every head in the house turned to look at Shagrat.  More people had squeezed into the bar-room and there was now no question of the Orc being able to make a break for it.  There was far too much of a crowd standing between him and the door.

Since his time with the travelling showmen Shagrat had always feared he’d meet his end being ripped apart by a mob of angry villagers; he still regularly had nightmares about it, in fact.  Now the worst had happened however he found there was in a sense a definite, if an odd sort of feeling of relief.

Shoving his chair back Shagrat drew himself up from his usual stooping hunch, stood tall at his impressive height, and felt for his sword-stick, which wasn’t there.

His face fell and he almost faltered, but only for an instant.  “Come on then,” he snarled at the bar-room at large, baring his teeth and rallying.  “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough –“

And then he was face-down on the floor, pinned in place by half a dozen eager men.

“They say they want him alive?  Or dead?” demanded the fellow who’d been speaking to Ludlow at the bar.

One of the men holding Shagrat down seized a handful of the Orc’s hair at the back of his neck and dragged his head back, exposing his throat.  Asking if anyone had a decent pig-sticking blade on them, he said: “shouldn’t matter either way if we bring it in with its throat cut.  Usual form for these things isn’t it?”

Snarling maniacally, the Uruk snapped his teeth and did his best to bite him.  It wasn’t much as last stands went but at least, Shagrat thought to himself, he’d gone down fighting.  Sort of.  Never mind that he’d known from before the start that it was going to be a completely pointless attempt.

The men from the village had started sharpening a pointed, wicked-looking knife as the Hobbit pushed his way, doggedly, through the crowd.  “I really think,” Ludlow chirped in a bossy, insistent voice, waving the edict and tugging at the Chief of militia’s sleeve, “that you should read this through properly before you and your colleagues embark upon anything - rash.  What you’re proposing - I mean, that would most _certainly_ invalidate your chances of collecting any reward.”

The Chief hesitated, staring at him, then withdrew a pair of reading glasses from his pocket.  “Hold up, you lot,” he told the others, lips moving as he scrolled down through writing on the paper.  

“Well then, I must say,” he said at length, “everyone here stands most indebted to you Master Hobbit.  You’ve saved us from a lot of trouble, I’m sure.  That could have had very expensive consequences.”

“Says here they’re wanting them alive, brought in alive, at any rate,” he told his companions loudly.  

At that the man holding Shagrat’s head back let go of it abruptly.  It hit the floor with a resounding bump.

“Don’t worry guv’nor,” said the man from the bar. “’Alive’ is one thing – but there’s no reason we can’t have a bit of sport of our own before we bring this filth in, is there?”  To Ludlow’s consternation, the man’s suggestion was met with a loud chorus of cheers.

Ludlow jumped up and own, trying to make himself heard over the noise them.  “You can’t!  I hardly think that’s going to be in the spirit of –“

“Now then little Master, don’t you worry,” the militia man was telling him.  He put a hand on the Hobbit’s shoulder to stop him.  “I know it’s a difficult thing for someone like you to see, but it’s only an old Orc after all, and nothing to get yourself so aerated about!  There’s ways and means, and I can’t very well stop this lot having their fun.” 

“That’s right,” the man from the bar agreed, as he followed the crowd who were now bearing their new captive Shagrat out through the door.  “We’ll be sure to leave him alive at the end of it - if you’re sure that’s what you wish.”

“Get off me!” Ludlow told the Chief of militia.  Wrenching himself free he ran off to follow the others, outside.

What happened to the Uruk next shocked Ludlow more than a little, although the sad truth is that it was nothing particularly new to Shagrat.

The behaviour of the people who had caught him amounted to being nothing short of utterly and authentically Orcish.  He was beaten and degraded in the usual ways as predicted; kicked and stripped and spat upon, tormented and provoked.   They jeered at him – at first he wouldn’t answer; they laughed at him and still he didn’t speak.

At first Ludlow couldn’t fathom what the Orc was playing at.  Gradually he realized - looking on helpless and feeling thoroughly sick - that Shagrat was actually trying to rise above the vicious treatment being meted out to him.  Kneeling naked and bloody, soaked with spit and sweat - and eventually a measure of his own vomit – Shagrat tried to keep his face impassive and endured blow after blow from the townsmen’s knees and feet and fists.  The Hobbit began to realize that this was his companion’s only option: his one pitiful, remaining option lay in not letting those people get a reaction out of him.  Unfortunately those townsmen, eyeing the silent, put-upon Orc seemed to arrive at a similar conclusion at around the same time.  They redoubled their efforts to hurt him properly then, and soon had him snarling in pain and slavering like a beast.

Shagrat’s responses to adversity became more and more animal-like the further the evening wore on and by the end of it Ludlow would have been hard-pressed to even recognise the jaded and world-weary Uruk he thought he’d been getting to know over the past weeks.  For this reason he was more than a little daunted by the prospect of facing the raging, spitting creature into which his travelling companion had been transformed, but Ludlow was at his most basic a stout-hearted and loyal little fellow.  To his credit his resolution to rescue Shagrat did not waver for an instant.

It was late at night by the time they were finished with the Uruk.  The men checked on the ropes they’d used - much earlier - in the evening to bind him, then slung Shagrat into the beer-cellar of the village tavern.  Peeking in on him through a crack in the door, the Hobbit was glad to see that he seemed to have calmed down – or had slumped into a slough of morose feelings and dejection, it was difficult to tell which.  The out-building he was being kept in had been bolted and barred from the outside, but was otherwise unsecured and the single townsman who had volunteered to stand guard was now well and truly passed out, because Ludlow had been plying him with strong drink since well before closing time.  Moving as quietly as only a Hobbit could, Ludlow let himself in.

Shagrat had obviously not been expecting him to come and although he tried to hide his surprise he was bad at it.  It was clear to Ludlow that even then, the Orc was far from being sure of him.

“Still not seen enough as yet?” he snarled.  “Come to gawk some more?”  He lunged at Ludlow as if to attack but it was an empty gesture and they both knew it because Shagrat had been tied fast by his captors, hand and foot.  To forestall any further negative comments the Hobbit bent down and began trying to untie him. He swallowed when he saw how the deeply the rough cords had bitten into the Uruk’s wrists and ankles.  He had obviously been struggling against them violently and for quite some time.

“Just cut it through,” Shagrat told him, dismissing Ludlow’s careful attempts to avoid injuring him any further.  “Cut it through quickly and let me up.”  His tone was harsh and by this time the Hobbit was nearly in tears of sympathy himself.

“I, er, brought your clothes and things,” Ludlow said as he worked at the knots.  “I think it was disgraceful, the way they all wanted to – to poke and prod at you.”

“That’s the first thing they always do, especially when they’ve got a few drinks in them,” Shagrat said wearily. “Whole world and his wife want to come take a gander at you.  You get used to it.”

Ludlow tutted.  “I simply can’t understand it.”

“Is that right?”  Shagrat said sceptically.  “Everybody else seems to.”

“ _Not_ everybody!  I, for one, most certainly don’t!”

“Then maybe that’s just you.”

That was the last the Orc said to him for some time, for it clear that Shagrat was in no mood for talking.  Together they made their way out of the building, then hurried through the deserted streets to the edge of the town.

The Hobbit and Uruk stood together in the dark for an uncomfortable moment.  Folding himself stiffly onto one knee Shagrat brought himself down to the Hobbit’s level, so that they were more or less eye-to-eye.  The Orc looked as if he might be considering clapping him on the shoulder in a comradely manner, but if he was he quickly thought better of it.  He seemed to be searching for the right words for something he hadn’t much experience in knowing how to say.

“You know I – I won’t be forgetting this,” was what he eventually came up with.

“My dear Shagrat,” Ludlow replied, taking the Orc’s maimed right hand and holding onto it, “why, thank you - but there’s really no need!  Isn’t this the very least that friends should do?”

“Should they?” Shagrat echoed, hastily disengaging from him.  “Friends, you say?”  There was a bleak look in his eye.  “I suppose I wouldn’t know.” 

There was another awkward silence and then the Uruk cleared his throat.  “So!” he said. “That wall-eyed berk you were talking to at the start of it, who was all for putting for putting the boot into me.  Where did he say his High and Royal Wonderfulness Prince Faramir’s gone and put his camp?”

Ludlow pointed him in what he thought was the right general direction. “But Shagrat, wait!  You can’t just go running off like this –“

“No,” Shagrat interrupted, “his Highness and me, we’ve got unfinished business.  Stuff that _can’t_ wait.”  He turned and loped away into the dark.

“It isn’t safe!” Ludlow protested, running a little way along after.  

But the Uruk had already been swallowed up by the vastness of the night, and the lone Hobbit had no way of following him.

 

TBC


	15. Dramatic....entrance

 

It was well after midnight by the time Faramir was able to return to his tent.  The day had been long and trying, and there had been a gruesome occurrence earlier that afternoon that he’d had particular difficulty in dealing with.  The Rohirrim guardsmen who were accompanying him, ostensibly for his and his wife’s protection while they were travelling were looking to Eowyn more and more for their orders – taking them from Eowyn exclusively, if truth be told.  Worn out from the events of the day - or perhaps for some other reason, Faramir’s usually sharp reactions failed him as he stood in the open doorway, and it was a moment before he realised there was someone already there.

“Well met, your Highness.”

Faramir’s heart leapt into his mouth.  Of course he knew the voice.  He’d been hearing it in his dreams often enough.

Shagrat was lazing back in a canvas chair as he waited for the Prince, sitting there exactly as if he owned the place.

“What are you doing here, Shagrat?  And how did you find my tent?”

Shagrat snorted.  “Wasn’t difficult.  One Orc looks very much like another - and you’ve got enough of us in your camp already, but I’ll grant you, not too many outside of that natty little stockade.  What’re you up to, Goldilocks?  Nights under canvas at your age?  Bit cold for camping, I’d have thought.  Spot of house-keeping, is it?   You keeping busy tidying up the countryside for your new King?”

Faramir hurried further into the tent, drawing the door-flaps closed after him.   “And what do you mean by that?” he asked Shagrat.

“What do _you_ mean by it Goldilocks,” Shagrat snarled hotly, “that you’re rounding up Orcs!  How could you?  You, of all people!  After everything we’ve done and – and been to each other, you and me.”  Suddenly he stopped, and when he continued it was in a cold, quiet voice that alarmed Faramir much more than any yelling or bluster from him would have been likely to.  “Ah!  But then I _will_ keep forgetting.  As you once told me before, how could I ever have imagined there was anything between us?”

Reeling with shock Faramir sat down heavily on his camp-bed, shaking his head.

“I still wouldn’t have expected it, Goldilocks.  Anyone else maybe, but not from an honest, colours-nailed-to-flagpole fellow like you.”  Shagrat sat silent for a few seconds.  “Missus keeping well?”

“My wife Eowyn – to the best of my knowledge – is in excellent health,” Faramir replied.  “What makes you ask?”

“Had to go creeping past quite the contingent of Rohirrim, didn’t I, when I was trying to get to you.”

“They could be said in many ways to be – overzealous -”

“Don’t think I can’t recognize the ones’re Eowyn’s men either - not after being shot at!  Means your lady wife - she’s here, isn’t she?  What is it - two of you decided you’re starting over, have you?”  He watched Faramir’s reactions closely.  “What hoops she got you jumping through this time, Goldilocks?  Is it ‘prove how much you love me’?  Making things up with her - that what you trying to do?  Just tell me straight.  She been after you to rout us lot out?”

Faramir began stammering that no, he and his wife had in no way planned  -

To Shagrat hearing Faramir speak about Eowyn was, for some reason, like a red rag to a bull.  Leaping to his feet, the Orc knocked him down and leapt on him.

“What happened to Dokuz?” he snarled.

Sprawling back against the cushions of his camp-bed, Faramir looked blank for a moment.  “You mean the Orc from this afternoon, that –“

“Yes, the Orc this afternoon!   The one who ended up in bits all over your camp!  Hacked to death by _straw-heads_?  What about Dokuz, Goldilocks!  You could’ve stopped that.   _Should’ve_.  He’d not done anything to you.”

Horrified at the realization that Shagrat had witnessed Dokuz’s fate, Faramir began stammering apologies at once.  Dokuz had marched into Faramir’s encampment earlier that day, demanding payment for information. When this had not been forthcoming he had very unwisely shown his  weapons to a group of agitated and overly trigger-happy Rohirrim, who had reacted – retaliated - with quite unnecessary force.

Eowyn’s countrymen were increasingly behaving like a law unto themselves and Faramir had been unable to stop their assault on the Orc Dokuz once it had begun.  Having disposed of one Orc, their reasoning had been that they should set about begin dispatching the rest of them as well, for - as Shagrat had been correct in noting –  Faramir had lately come into possession of quite a motley collection of his compatriots.  There were Orcs and Uruks great and small, from great Mordor Uruks to little mountain goblins, all of whom had been captured and brought to Faramir as a result of Eowyn and Hrodgar’s nefarious campaign. 

After Dokuz met his ugly fate, the Prince had eventually managed to dissuade the Rohirrim from taking further action but it had been a very near thing – and he knew he was hanging onto his command by the skin of his teeth.

“Shagrat, I’m so sorry,” Faramir said.  “That Orc -  Dokuz.  He was a friend of yours?”

The Uruk, enraged, grabbed a double handful of Faramir’s shirt-front and shook him back and forth. “No!” he roared, “I couldn’t stand the bleeder, blast his eyes!  That bastard Dokuz was _anything_ but a friend to me but that ain’t the point!  Don’t you see how  - “

Suddenly he stopped short.  Proximity to Shagrat had had an under the circumstances wholly inappropriate, yet very predictable effect on Faramir and as Shagrat crouched over, shaking him, each movement had been bringing Faramir’s jutting erection into contact with the Orc’s upper thigh.  This was a thing that in his rage and anger it had been easy for Shagrat, initially, to overlook.  

Faramir closed his eyes.  For a moment there he thought he might have been getting away with it. Try as he might he’d simply been unable to control his reaction to the sight of the enraged Orc.  It was as if the twenty-odd years between this moment and the time when he had been Shagrat’s prisoner in Mordor had been wiped out, and his feelings were being experienced once again with all the intensity of his youth.

And Shagrat, far from begin the wretched half-broken creature that Faramir had rescued out of pity had once again become the fierce and uncompromising Uruk Captain of Faramir’s memory, an entity who in one form or another had been fuelling his darkest and most private fantasies for the past two decades.  It was no wonder, then, that he had not been able to control himself.

Shagrat dropped his hold on Faramir abruptly and stood up.  The unfortunate Prince’s breeches were tented up over his groin and were damp with moisture where the head of his erection was straining against the cloth.  They both stared at it in silence.

“So that’s the way of it, is it?” Shagrat said.  “That what you’ve been after all this time, a bit of rough treatment?  You should’ve said.  I wouldn’t wasted so much time pussy-footing around, trying to do things different.”

Forcing out a laugh to cover his nervousness, Faramir asked him what he knew about pussy-footing around and doing things differently.

The Orc just stared at him.  “It didn’t come naturally, and that’s a fact,” he said at last.  “Wanted to make the effort though, for you.  More fool me.”

“Well then your Highness,” Shagrat continued, “for all this being such a pretty picture it does seems strangely familiar, doesn’t it?  You know, I really thought we’d – “ he broke off, swallowing heavily, then apparently thought better of whatever he’d been intending to say.  “Never mind, eh?  We’re here, back where we started and now everyone knows where they stand we better get on then, hadn’t we?” He leaned back and unhurriedly began unfastening his belt, followed by the ties that held his leggings closed.

Faramir watched him wide-eyed, his throat gone dry.

“Roll over on your front, all right?” Shagrat said.

His companion looked blank.

“You’ve been expecting this all along, haven’t you?  From about the first minute you saw me, I should think – so I suppose I’ve kept you hanging round waiting long enough.  If you really want me to do it you’d best get over and lie on your front.  Hands and knees or head down in your bed-roll, it’s all one to me.  Get on your front though.  I’m not rodgering you if I have to look at you when I’m about it.”

“But you haven’t the faintest idea about doing that,” Faramir protested, realising in dismay that his voice was pitched about an octave higher than usual.  “You told me so when we were in the Tower.  In Cirith Ungol.”

“Did I?” said Shagrat.  “Did I say that?  The thing is, Goldilocks, a lot’s happened since you and me were in Cirith Ungol.”

“A – a lot?”

“Mm-hm,” Shagrat confirmed.  “All sorts of things happened after you went.  After you left me for dead, or as good as dead, down in those barracks.  ‘And what have we here?’ now that _didn’t_ look good.  There I was, arresting patrol cut to pieces all around and no Tark prisoner.  What d’you think might’ve happened to me afterwards, in that sort of situation, in Mordor, Goldilocks?”

Faramir stammered that he didn’t know, he couldn’t say.

“And that is probably because you’ve never asked,” Shagrat told him, adopting a frighteningly conversational tone.  “Funny, that.”

Clearing his throat, Faramir began asking: “Shagrat, what happened to you after I –“

“I don’t want to talk about it!” shrieked Shagrat, “not bloody now I don’t, not to you!”

“Keep your voice down,” Faramir hissed desperately, “someone will hear.”

Shagrat stopped short, staring at him, then gave a half-amused snort.  “Strewth!  You bloody well _are_ up for this.  Really gagging for it aren’t we, your Highness?  Roll over then, Goldilocks,” he repeated.  “And take those britches down.  Let’s be seeing your arse.”

With some trepidation Faramir complied, settling for an in-between position: half on his knees and  at the same time pitching forwards, on his elbows, on the bed.  The mountain air felt cold on his exposed buttocks.  It was an extremely vulnerable position - and he felt absolutely ridiculous.

After a time he dared a backward glance over his shoulder at Shagrat.  The Orc was standing back slightly, watching him.  His cock was out and in his hand - not hard as yet, Faramir was surprised to notice - and as he stared and stared he fisted it with a series of long, casual strokes.

“Let me do that,” Faramir heard himself say.

“You stay where you are,” Shagrat replied shortly.  Laboriously, he got to the floor and knelt down behind him.  It began to occur to Faramir that irrespective of what he claimed, it might have been a long time indeed since Shagrat had done anything like this.

“There might be some emollient in that cabinet,” he told Shagrat, sounding slightly panicked.  “For lubrication.  I mean - we might find we want to use it.”

“I’ll just bloody _bet_ you would,” the Orc replied.  “Won’t be needing that,” he continued in an odd, clipped voice.  “That’s not exactly what I have in mind for you.  Got something else planned for the two of us tonight.”

For the first time Faramir began to experience a flicker of doubt and apprehension - which immediately increased because at that point Shagrat began inexpertly pawing at his buttocks.  He jumped as the Orc’s fingertips grazed lightly over the outside of his arsehole and then shivered as one finger, which was rapidly joined by another, pushed their way inside.

“Give us a minute,” Shagrat muttered, waggling them about.  “I’ve not done this left-handed before.”  

Faramir knelt where he was and waited, feeling acutely self-conscious.

“No?” asked Shagrat in due course. “Nothing?  Fair enough.”

A moment later Faramir pitched forward onto his bed with surprise – and not a little disgust - as something hot, wet and flexible snaked its way around his bollocks and then began insinuating itself into his back passage.  His dismay at the realisation that Shagrat was in a very real sense licking his arse rapidly changed into – something else.  It was a unique sensation because he wasn’t just licking it -  

He was sucking on it, blowing hot breath on it, and his tongue – his long, flickering tongue was probing deeply in and out, and was reaching parts of Faramir it really hadn’t any business going anywhere near to.  That the Uruk seemed completely without shame in this respect didn’t by this stage come as a great surprise to Faramir, although his own response to Shagrat’s actions did.  As far as Faramir was concerned, the Orc could have done whatever he liked with him and he wouldn’t have minded.  In fact, he was rapidly coming to the firmly-held opinion that he’d have absolutely loved it.

Shagrat worked on him in silence, using his fingers, lips and tongue as he kneaded and stroked, carefully stretching at the entrance to Faramir’s body.  By the time he was finished everything – down there - was sopping wet, filthy slick and slippery, and at last, butting against his arsehole – which was hanging open by the feel of it – was the head of Shagrat’s cock.

It occurred to the Prince that he was about to have the most intimate kind of intercourse with an Orc, a point from which there could certainly be no going back.  Instead of second thoughts Faramir, who was by now completely beyond any pretence of dignity rather wished he’d just get on with it. Because, after the frenzied licking of his thighs and groin that had put Faramir beside himself, Shagrat’s approach to fucking him properly was something completely different.  He was terribly restrained about it - much more so than any human lover in Faramir’s experience had ever been, and gave his partner just as much time as he needed - more than that, really - to adjust.  If, at the time it was actually happening his thoughts had been half-way coherent or anywhere near that, Faramir might have realised how much it was costing the Orc to handle him with such extreme levels of self-control.  As it was however after an impatient moment or two, he found himself simply shoving backwards onto Shagrat’s cock, and when the Uruk gave a pained-sounding yelp and swore under his breath it was easy enough for Faramir to surmise that it had been an expression of rampant lust – instead of anything else.

Even then, he found his stroke soon enough.  Faramir gasped as Shagrat drove his organ fully into him, almost climaxing from the thought of what he was doing to him as from this new sensation alone.  The Orc had not laid so much as a claw on Faramir’s member as yet and as the Uruk thrust steadily in and out behind him, surreptitiously he began snaking his hand down between his legs.

“No you don’t,” growled Shagrat, “I ruddy bloody _wouldn’t_.”  He prised Faramir’s clutching hand away from his private parts and slapped it down beside his head.   Using his weight to push down firmly, he held on to the wrist and pinned it in place.  Faramir groaned aloud into his bedroll.  Much as he was relishing being fucked by Shagrat he wasn’t likely to come from it, not quite like this.  Not that he wasn’t ready; he was so aroused and hard that with the littlest bit of friction, if the Orc had let him touch himself – even for a moment – that was surely all it would have taken.

Groaning out with frustration, Faramir bucked his hips once or twice, straining into thin air in the futile hope that it would bring him some relief.  All at once the Uruk’s left hand  - mercifully! - was grabbing at his groin, holding and pressing in – exactly, precisely – the right place.  Through the blood rushing in his ears and the strangled shout that rose in his throat Farmir thought he heard Shagrat saying something to him which when he looked back on it seemed a little incongruous –

“Go on then, your Highness.  Have this one on me.”

But at the time, through the rising waves of ecstasy that Shagrat had brought him to, he thought very little of it.  After a while he was dimly aware that the Orc had disengaged himself.  He wiped down Faramir’s loins and buttocks perfunctorily, then threw a camp blanket over his back.

Finally the realisation that all was not well began to register in Faramir’s pleasure-addled consciousness.  Something was definitely not right because Shagrat was no longer resting behind him.  He was pulling himself up – getting to his feet – and making ready to leave.

“Where are you going?” Faramir asked foolishly, to which Shagrat muttered something inaudible.  He tottered a couple of steps away before sitting down abruptly again.  The Orc’s back was turned to him and he seemed to be making extraordinarily heavy weather of re-fastening his breeches. Faramir reached over to turn him round and Shagrat shook him off immediately, telling him to keep his hands to himself.

“Great merciful heavens,” Faramir blurted, catching a glimpse of what was giving the Uruk such trouble.  His member had not gone down as yet and seemed to Faramir’s experienced eye to be somewhat larger than it ought to have been, even in its most erect state.

“Wait,” Faramir said desperately, “wait!  Look here Shagrat, I can’t leave you in that condition.  We can carry on, we will, we’ll carry on till you – till you finish off.”

“Shouldn’t think that’s going to be on the cards,” Shagrat replied tightly.  “Not the state I’m in at any rate.  If I leave it long enough I expect sooner or later it’ll – go down – of its own accord.  Won’t be pissing straight for a bit, that’s all.”

Clambering over beside him Faramir murmured another suggestion, which unfortunately provoked an even worse reaction from the Orc.  Shagrat pushed him away roughly with a dangerous look in his eye. 

“Cheers, thanks for that, your Highness,” he said, “not that having you suck me off isn’t a tempting offer, but there’s no way I’m going to be falling for that one again.  Never in a million years.”

“You forget: I’ve been here before,” he continued, trying - then failing - to get to his feet as he spoke.  “And I remember how it goes.  Oh, the fits of royal vapouring I’d have to listen to afterwards, if my unclean Orcish cock was to wander the slightest bit near your High and Mightyness-es’ mouth!  Don’t I dread to think what would happen if a filthy creature such as I am was to forget himself far enough to spill a drop of spunk in the heat of the moment, even as your lordship’s doing his level best to swallow his cock!  You’d bend my ear long enough afterwards, saying it was me as made you do it - I know that for a fact.  Forced you into it - yeah, right!  Then, right, your precious bleedin’ honour’d most likely have you try and kill me afterwards, for being stupid enough to have let you anywhere near me in the first place!  Oh no.  Oh, _no_!  I know my bloody place, Goldilocks, you’ve made that clear often enough, and I won’t -”

He stopped at that moment because Faramir, if for no other reason than to test the often-repeated assertion that actions speak louder than words, had begun kissing him.  He could still taste himself faintly on the Orc’s tongue and lips and it ought to have been disgusting, repulsive; yet somehow on Shagrat it - wasn’t.  In fact it rather suited him, Faramir thought.  The Uruk himself had other ideas however and reared back from Faramir violently, hand to his mouth and shaking his head.

“What d’you think you’re doing?” he asked.  “I’d stop that, if I were you.  It’s not as if you don’t know where I’ve been.”

But Faramir knew exactly how to get around Shagrat’s defences.  The swollen head of the Orc’s member, feeling painfully hot against his lips, was soon in his mouth and in due course the problem that was afflicting Shagrat had been relieved.  The Uruk at his moment of orgasm was utterly silent as he always was at such times and on this occasion, so preternaturally still to boot that if he hadn’t felt the quick rush of acrid semen gushing through his fingers when Shagrat ejaculated, Faramir would have been hard-pressed to tell whether he’d reached his climax or not.  Grabbing a fistful of the Prince’s hair in an iron-hard and inflexible grip, he hauled Faramir’s head out of his lap just before his critical moment came - and all in all it had taken a minimum of effort from the Prince. Faramir felt ashamed and sorry, as he had done in similar situations in the past that his companion could be satisfied so easily.

As Faramir soon discovered afterwards however, Shagrat was feeling anything but pleased with him.  The talk had been driven out of him and he sat gloomily silent, frowning darkly and not responding to anything Faramir said to get him speaking again.  He appeared to be waiting for something to happen, but what that was the Prince couldn’t say.  So oppressive and uncomfortable was the silence between them that Faramir was almost relieved then, when a short while later there came a scratching at the door-panel of his tent.

Smiling thinly, Shagrat stood up.  “Sorry about earlier Goldilocks,” he muttered. “I got carried away as usual, all right?  Heat of the moment, and that.   Your charms just got the better of me, didn’t they.”

Still wondering what he meant by that, Faramir went over to see who was at his door – and stepped back in surprise when he found Eowyn there waiting for him.  The Orc’s mouth stretched wide into something like a horrible grin – not far off from being a bare-toothed rictus, really, as he turned to greet her.  As before, when she’d surprised them at  Faramir’s house in Ithilien, the Lady was quick to realize what sort of a situation she’d walked in upon.

 

 

 

 


	16. ...And exit

 

“Again!” Eowyn screamed, and then added something incoherent about there being no end to Faramir’s depravity.  “Is it even the same one as last time, or another of these monsters with which you insist on surrounding yourself that you’ve inveigled into your bed?”

Shagrat straightened up quickly and stared at her for a moment in surprise. “What with everything going on – that lovely welcome you just gave me for starters, I never thought to ask,” he said to Faramir.  “Tell me, you been feeling quite yourself lately, your Highness?  You keeping well  - all chipper and in good spirits – or maybe not so much, these days?” 

Disarmed by this unexpected line of questioning, Faramir acknowledged in bewilderment that he had indeed been unusually fatigued of late.  He had been spending far too much time asleep and had been finding it strangely difficult to concentrate -

“So go ahead and ask her Ladyship what she’s been spiking your grub with then.   Stuff’s in your drink as well, I should think.  Surprised you’ve not noticed it yourself, really, ‘cause you reek of it, inside and out.  She does, too.  Didn’t know what I was smelling till the minute she swept in here.”

“Faramir!  He’s lying!  You believe the word of such a creature against your own wife?”

“I can’t help noticing your good lady hasn’t actually denied she’s up to anything as yet, has she?  Whatever it is is supposed to make you a bit more biddable, I expect.  Much more easily led - open to suggestion.  We know all about that stuff where I come from.”

“It’s – it is medicine!” Eowyn protested, swelling up with self-righteous anger.

“It isn’t,” insisted Shagrat.

Eowyn was carrying a short-bladed sword on her girdle and now, panting out an anguished cry, she reached for it - presumably with the intention of defending her own honour, since Faramir was showing little inclination to take on the task at that particular moment.  But it had been many months since she had trained in combat and the weapon snagged and stuck in the trailing skirts of her gown.  Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, Shagrat swatted the weapon aside with a powerful back-swipe of his gauntleted hand, sending it clattering away onto the floor.

“They say you took on a Nazgul,” Shagrat commented, “which is impressive, there’s no need to tell me.  But tonight - you’re going to have to do a bit better than that.”

Brave-hearted as she was, Eowyn was nobody’s fool and would never ordinarily have rated her chances in hand-to-hand combat against an Uruk-hai.  So perhaps when she ran at Shagrat, open-handed, her rage had momentarily overwhelmed her, or perhaps she was just instinctively assuming that Faramir would be bound to step in on her side.   

Shagrat started to step sideways as she threw herself onto him and caught hold of her by the wrist - but the momentum of Eowyn’s rush carried her onward and the Uruk snorted out suddenly, as if in surprise, when she collided with him.  They tussled briefly before the Orc was able to dislodge the small, hidden dagger that she had sought to stab him with from her grip.  He threw it away from them and it stuck blade-first in the ground.

The Lady uttered a panting cry of triumph. “Now is _that_ doing better?” she said.

Shagrat faltered for a moment where he stood.  Then, snarling at her to keep quiet, he twisted the hand he was still holding up between Eowyn’s shoulders and threw his forearm round her neck, forcibly pulling her backwards against his chest.

Eowyn squirmed away from him, clearly repulsed by the contact.  “You would dare to lay hands on me!” she hissed.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” Shagrat replied.  Eowyn drew a deep breath at that and the Orc jerked his arm up, painfully squeezing down on his hostage’s windpipe.  “Don’t think about screaming for help,” he said.

“Shagrat, please!” Faramir interjected.  “You must understand - Eowyn is my wedded wife!”  The Prince, his face strained and white, had picked up the lady’s fallen sword.  He held and stared at it for a moment, swung the blade experimentally to test the weight and balance, then pointed it determinedly straight at Shagrat.

The Orc blinked at him once, then twice.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“Make no mistake.   I will not allow any harm to come to her!”  Faramir, his hands trembling only slightly, pushed the blade close into the angle of the Uruk’s jaw.

Shagrat held himself still.  Beads of sweat were standing out on his brow and his throat worked silently as he struggled to compose himself.

“So, it comes to this,” he spat, “ _again_.”  He moved closer, dragging Eowyn with him so that Faramir was forced to lower his sword slightly – that, or risk running him through.  “I suppose it’s a case of what’s one more Orc, give or take?  Or have you started keeping tally of your kills?  I heard that’s the done thing among your new pals up in the White City.”

Faramir replied that that was hardly fair. “It’s not as if Orcs don’t do that – and far worse - too!”

Shagrat’s voice shook with incredulity and badly-suppressed hurt.  “ _But you lot are supposed to_ _know better_!”

“I’ve done everything you wanted,” he continued. “On the slightest chance of seeing you I came running.  Walked straight in here on account of it, ready to give myself up – and gave you the seeing-to of your life while I was at it.  Yeah, I did everything you wanted, didn’t I?  Then what do I find but your good lady –“ he jerked Eowyn up off her feet for an instant, making her squeak – “ _she’s_ \-  doing the dirty on you and raise the alarm - cotton you onto it – and yet _I’m_ the one ends up with a sword at his throat?”

Put like that perhaps it did come across as being a little unfair.  “Don’t make me do this,” Faramir pleaded.

The Orc shook his head. “You’re bluffing.”

“Shagrat I – I won’t ask you again.  Let her go!”

The Uruk stared into his eyes searchingly.  “I still say you’re bluffing, on account of what you said to me when you were coming off a minute ago.  In case you still don’t get it, that was when the two of us were getting stuck in, shagging.” He directed the last part at Eowyn, spitefully.  She glared back at him as best she could from the awkward position she was holding: defiantly, her gaze filled with loathing.

“I can’t – I don’t recall what – if anything – was said?”

“’Oh Shagrat, I love you,’” the Orc quoted in a flat voice, “’Shagrat, don’t ever leave me.’ That’s how it went.”

Eowyn gave a strangled cry, aghast. “Faramir, no!  But you can hardly be held responsible for yourself, if you’re willing to say such vile things!”

Shagrat snorted. “Her Ladyship’s right, of course.  Even so some people might say you ought to stop toying with my affections.  And you’d understand, wouldn’t you Goldilocks, if I was to ask you to make up your blasted mind?”

In one rapid movement Shagrat caught the mid-point of Faramir’s blade flat between his left thumb and fingertips and jerked the sword clean out of his hands.  He tossed it up quickly to swing it round, caught it by the handle and lurched back a step, dragging Eowyn with him, at the same time brandishing his new weapon clumsily at the Prince.

“I know you were bluffing,” he grated out.  “But me, I’ve had my – my feelings hurt.  Think about that - bear that in mind, when you’re planning your next move.”

“His ‘feelings’!” Eowyn cried, with obvious disbelief.  “But Faramir, he’s –“

Shagrat rounded on her, snarling through his teeth.  “As for you, you’d better shut it,” he said.  “You’d better bloody shut your lying blasted mouth before I go and do something permanent that laughing boy over there –“ he jerked his head at her husband – “is going to permanently regret.”  He tucked Eowyn’s sword into his belt and, still pinning her against him, hauled the lady over to Faramir’s night-stand.  The Uruk sniffed briefly at the contents of the water jug there.  “Yeah, the stuff’s spiked,” he said.  “It’s swimming with it.”  He sloshed out a generous glassful and held it up for Eowyn to drink.  She refused and struggled wildly, turning to Faramir for support.

“If it’s only frigging ‘medicine’ like she says, it’s not likely to do her Ladyship any harm, is it?” said the Orc.

“Faramir!” Eowyn cried again, appealing to her husband against Shagrat’s flawed logic.

His loyalties torn between them, the Prince hesitated but at last he said: “I should do as he says, if I were you.”

Shooting her husband a single withering, scorn-filled glare Eowyn straightened her back and drank. The drug that was dissolved in the water began acting quickly, indicating that perhaps it had been necessary for Hrodgar to increase the strength of his brew over time.  Shagrat, his side turned carefully away from Faramir, released his hold on Eowyn.  He stepped away as she drained the glass and leaned heavily against the nightstand, apparently watching the effects with interest.  He didn’t bother to catch the Lady when, after standing, staring in wide-eyed in surprise for a moment, her knees buckled and she slipped forwards to the ground.

“You might at least have broken her fall,” Faramir admonished him, hurrying over to his wife.  He moved her gently, settling her into a more comfortable position.   She had lost all colour, turning pale, but her heart was beating strongly and he saw that although the rate of her breathing seemed slower than normal, the breaths she took were regular and deep.

Shagrat looked on impassively, still unwilling to move.  “Looks like strong stuff.”

“Quite the match you’ve made for yourself there, Goldilocks,” the Orc continued.  “Now, if you’ve finished putting your better half to bed, get up.  On your feet, your Highness.  You and me, we’re going for a walk.”

With Eowyn’s sword held at his back and the Uruk following several steps behind him, Faramir found himself unceremoniously frog-marched out of his tent.  As they hurried across the quiet camp ground, the Prince mentioned, in a deliberately casual voice that he thought Shagrat said he’d intended to ‘give himself up’.

“Thought better of it,” the Uruk replied.  He coughed - a long, gurgling hack, and spat.  “Maybe I’m getting sick of crawling after you, always hoping for something better than a kick in the face.  Might as well tell the truth.  I’d never any chance of getting it, had I?”

Faramir stopped and began to turn round to answer him, but the Orc fell on him, hissing and spitting in reply.

“What I said before still goes!” he snarled at Faramir.  “Eyes to the front and don’t you dare even – fucking – look at me!  I don’t want to have to see you stupid, conniving, face any more, all right?” 

After that they went on without speaking.  With prods from the sword he was carrying Shagrat steered his hostage across one, then two fields of upland pasture.  From their course it was obvious he was making straight for the tree-line at the head of the valley where the royal party was encamped.

The moon burned bright and white above them and the winter frost crackled on the grass underfoot as they walked.  After perhaps a little under an hour of single-file progress in this way, they passed under the eaves of the wood.

The brisk pace he’d set, following on from his earlier exertions seemed to have taken their toll on Shagrat for once they were properly under cover in the stand of trees the Orc, groaning with exhaustion, sat down abruptly beside the track.  Faramir was barely able see him in the gloom beneath the pine-trees but he could hear him panting harshly – painfully - in and out with every breath.  Full of concern for his companion he bent down to try to help.

 At once the Uruk snarled again and struck at him viciously, warning him to stay away.  Nonplussed, the Prince kept his distance, finding by touch a seat of his own a few steps away.

After a moment Shagrat said into the dark: “you know, I think I preferred the way you were before, in Mordor.  At least you were honest.  I knew where I was, then.”

“I was more ‘honest’?’” Faramir replied incredulously. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“’What d’you mean by that?’” Shagrat said snidely, mimicking him.  “What I mean your Highness, is that back then you’d give it to me down the throat, fast and rough as anyone I’ve ever been with, and when you finished you had this way of looking down your nose at me like - as if I wasn’t fit to wipe the spunk you’d filled my gullet with off your boots.  But that was all right – it was better than this nonsense at any rate because it let me know that’s all I’m good for, and exactly what you thought of me.  And then you tricked me!  Started in with all this –“ he broke off, voice cracking slightly – “touchy-feely _bollocks_ ,” he continued, his tone rising, “and for a minute, just for a minute I thought – well.  We both know what I thought, seeing you were so angry you near enough killed me for it the next morning.”

“I did not!” Faramir protested hotly.  “I had nothing to do with that!  You were wounded in the fighting by a cave-troll!”

“Didn’t bother yourself to do much for me afterwards though, did you?” Shagrat snorted.  “Up and left me!  Speared through the shoulder to a fucking _door_!”

“But then I came straight back took you down from that – that blasted - door.  Bandaged your injuries too, the way I remember it.”

“Oh, well - bully for you!  Point I was making is there was no need for you to lead me on like that, was there?  I was probably going to let you go from Cirith Ungol anyway!”

“Probably?” repeated Faramir, adding that he couldn’t have afforded to stake his life on a chance like ‘probably’.

“Well ‘probably’s’ about all you’re likely to get now, isn’t it!” Shagrat yelled.  “Since we’ll never know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been planning to stab me in the back all along!  Do you know what they do to spies, and traitors, in Mordor, Goldilocks?”

“Torture?” Faramir hazarded his best guess.

Shagrat nodded wildly.  “You’ve no bloody idea!  Torture?  I’ll say!  You couldn’t think I’d have let anyone do that to you, could you?  You _knew_ the way I – you knew what you were to me.  You must have!  And then you played on it, but you didn’t have to go and do that.  I’d have thought your dratted ‘honour’ if nothing else would have kept you being straight with me.”

Tight-lipped, Faramir asked him if there was anything else he felt he’d like to get off his chest.

“Yes.  I reckon there is,” Shagrat replied.  “Because I didn’t understand, for a long time, why you had to go and do it all over _again_.  You could have left me at that village.  You did at first - and better for everyone it had stopped there!  But then you came back, nothing would do but you had to drag me along after and you were so bloody, blasted -” he spat the next words out as if he couldn’t bear the shape of them in his mouth - “ _kind_ and _decent_ to me for so long that I forgot it was nothing personal.  What did you think you were playing at?”

“You tell me!” Faramir retorted.  “What possible motivation could I have for enduring all the – the fuss and bother you’ve put me to, that you’re _still_ putting me through, if my intentions towards you were anything other than honourable?”

“It’s obvious when you think about it, isn’t it?” Shagrat said.  “You’re just touched in the head like her Ladyship says ‘cause I don’t know why – I’ll never understand why - but I reckon you’ve got this thing – for Orcs.  I mean like a weird, sexual thing.  And you don’t need to tell me that’s awful, because deep down you know it’s so terrible you have to try and dress it up as high-faluting clap-trap about ‘finer feelings’ and all that nonsense to have even half a chance of selling it to yourself.  But really, take it from me, it’s well wrong.  So wrong we both know you’re kidding yourself on.”

“You’re accusing me of having a serious sexual predilection for _Orcs_?’” Faramir repeated incredulously.  “Why, in the War, have you any idea how many of your kind I was personally responsible for –“ ‘killing’ he was going to say, but then broke off quickly, wisely abandoning that unhelpful line of argument.  “How can you possibly say that?  Because frankly, what on earth is there for anyone to like about Orcs?  Any person with an as-yet unfettered heart, who would consider embarking on an association with someone such as yourself, Shagrat, would be very well advised to carefully think twice.  Aside from the social stigma he or she would have to weather, such a person would have to endure not only his mate’s personal hygiene – or rather the lack thereof, but also his constant mood swings, black rages, bouts of depression – and –“ he muttered the last part under his breath – “not least being continually mauled about by those damnably accursed teeth!”

“Maybe what you like is knowing we’re sunk so low already you’re free to do anything you want to us – anything at all - and no matter how dirty or repulsive it is, it doesn’t count,” the Uruk shot back at him.  “Because no matter what hateful, nasty thing you think of, you can bet it’s going to be old hat, ‘cause odds are some other bugger’ll already have put us through it - or something very close to it - before.  You know as well as I do that you and me – like I keep saying, it’s _wrong_.  Maybe that’s why you go crazy whenever people find out about - about what we’ve been doing.”

The Orc’s opinion of their foundering friendship past and present was very far from what Faramir had intended and he was visibly shaken by what Shagrat had said.  “At my house in Ithilien,” he countered desperately. “That wasn’t repulsive, or dirty, was it?  Everybody knew about you there!”

“Lackeys and servants.” Shagrat said dismissively, “and all behind closed doors so no-one was ever sure.  Those are folk on the payroll - it’s their job to keep schtum.  What I’m talking about’s your kind of people - _important_ people.  People who matter to you - like your wife!  And whatever you say whenever there’s been a chance one of them’s going to find out you always drop me so fast I don’t know what’s hit me.”

He stood up.  All the while they’d spent talking it had been growing perceptibly lighter, but to Faramir, in the darkness under the trees, the Uruk was still just a hulking shape in the gloom.  The words he’d just said - the last the Prince would hear from him that night - were in a way ironic, even though they weren’t chosen by Shagrat for that reason, because not for some time after he’d regained consciousness would Faramir realise what – or who – had hit him.

As he stopped talking the Orc stepped round behind Faramir quickly.  Aiming a carefully precise blow to the back of his companion’s head, he clouted him heavily under his left ear, using exactly enough force to knock him senseless for the next few hours.  That he suffered neither a concussion nor fractures to his skull as a result of this treatment were factors that Faramir incorrectly attributed to luck, rather than Shagrat’s skills and considerable experience in all matters of violence.  Coming to himself shortly after daybreak, the unfortunate Prince was left with no worse injuries than extensive bruising, combined with an exceedingly sore head.

The Uruk however, had not escaped so easily.  When he woke Faramir found himself lying where Shagrat had dragged him - in a field at the edge of the wood.  From there he set out back to his camp as soon as he was able.  This meant that he never saw the drying slick of gore left in the place where Shagrat had been sitting the night before, and he completely failed to notice the spots and gouts of black blood that led to and then away from it, making a trail up through the trees.

 

TBC

 


	17. Another near-death experience

 

Probably there was something right and proper about it Shagrat thought to himself, as he toiled through the woods, moving further uphill. 

When Eowyn attacked for the second time the night before, she’d sort of fallen into his arms when she was running, and the dagger she’d been carrying in her right hand - well, it’d gone right through his left side, a lot like he hadn’t even been standing there in the way.  He cursed himself for not having worn more armour, but while he was creeping through Goldilocks’ campground earlier in the evening, trying to sniff out which one was his High and Mightyness’ tent, there’d been a definite requirement for stealth to contend with, so he’d taken most of the heavy stuff off.  

Shagrat wasn’t sure another layer of chain-mail would’ve made much of a difference in any case; not against that Dwarf-forged, blade-enchanted filth.  Talk about sharp!  He’d had time to recognize the knife that’d done for him as being the second of a pair of identical daggers that Faramir and Eowyn had been given on the occasion of their wedding.  Its opposite number from the set had been traded, by Faramir, with his previous owner (a fairground barker) for - Shagrat, back in the early days of this round of their turbulent relationship.  And so there was a kind of a - a dreadful symmetry, or something, about what had happened, he supposed.  Stumbling sideways off the path, the Orc fell clumsily onto his knees and was unable to get to his feet.  Afterwards he had to stay down on all fours.

Shagrat had heard it said once that being cut by an extremely sharp edge wasn’t particularly painful.   An Orc hailing from up in the far north-east had once bragged to him about it, saying it was a special trick they had up where they lived for catching wolves: what they’d do in winter was to freeze a dead, dead sharp knife into a block of fat, and then they’d plant the knife-spiked fat-berg somewhere wolves were living, leaving it so it was sticking up obvious out of the snow.  When a wolf came and ate the fat it’d cut its tongue to ribbons  - apparently, or so the foreign Orc said, this didn’t hurt because of the knife’s extreme sharpness and nine times out ten the wolf wouldn’t even notice. It would – very conveniently - bleed to death in the process....and you know what?   No doubt that stupid story about wolf-catching was also a complete, bleeding buggering fabrication, pulled straight out the arse of some boss-eyed lying tosser, as it had far too much of a whiff of being a po-faced parable about it to possibly be true.    

Because that thing about extremely sharp knife-cuts not being painful?  Well Shagrat had first-hand information now that told him that that little gem of useless information was total bloody bollocking _bollocks_ too.  

Eowyn’s knife had slipped up and under his ribs, and when it there had obviously sliced through something important - either on its way in or on its way out.  It had left an incongruously neat little superficial-looking wound that hurt like _buggery_ \- but which Shagrat, initially, had been able to easily plug with his fingertips. 

As the night went on however, the bleeding had grown steadily worse.

At first he’d hoped to make it back to the rocky overhang where he’d left the rest of his kit.  His water-flask was there - and better yet a bottle of Azof’s grog which, if useless as a curative would at least have helped take his mind off his latest set-back for a time.  From the top of the valley where he’d ditched Goldilocks, the place was a scant three miles along the south-western arm of the mountain spur that overlooked Faramir’s camp – and an even shorter distance, if you were going straight down hill.  It was close enough as the crow flies that, watching from a vantage point there on the cliff-side the day before, the Orc had been able to spy on the comings and goings down in Faramir’s camp quite clearly.  But those three intervening miles might as well have been three hundred because of the difference they made as matters currently stood.  Shagrat was now unable to crawl more than a little way and could go no further.  He realised then that he probably wasn’t going to make it.

There was precious little shade up where he was, and so the place he’d fallen looked about as good as any.  The winter sun was almost as high in the sky as it was going to get at this time of year and its rays shone strongly, being undiminished by the thin mountain air.  The wounded Uruk, weakened by blood-loss lay where he was and baked in it, drifting in and out of consciousness as the afternoon shadows gathered and slowly lengthened into dusk.

*********

It was well after moonrise when Ludlow, or rather the Warg that Ludlow was following finally tracked him down, and by that time there wasn’t very much left of Shagrat.  The Hobbit went straight past him the first time - but with a loud yelp the Warg, which had been leading the way, suddenly doubled back in its tracks and bounded off the path to the Orc’s side.

“Shagrat!” Ludlow cried, quite reasonably (based on previous experiences) assuming the worst.

As he approached the Uruk, making a noise like an air-filled bladder slowly deflating, rolled out of the hollow he’d been lying in till he was resting on his back.  The Hobbit saw the dark, sticky mess that was left underneath him and was horrified.

“All the blood - your blood!” he wailed.  He kept muttering it over and again in dismay as he fretted over him, wide-eyed.

“What about it!” Shagrat snapped, rallying enough to be immediately irritated by this almost to breaking point.

“Well, it - it looks like it’s black in the moonlight,” Ludlow replied, in a sing-song, horror-stricken tone.  “All black!  So very, very black!”

Shagrat groaned painfully and rolled his eye.  “My blood,” he said, “looks black in the moonlight, in full sunlight and at every other bloody time of day too, on account of it _is_ black, you blithering idiot.  Go on!  Tell me something I didn’t already know about.”

“Oh, Shagrat!  But there’s such an awful lot of it. There can’t be much left in you!”

“When that silly cow stabbed me she botched it, didn’t she?” Shagrat wheezed.  “Hadn’t an effin’ _clue_ what she was about.  Couldn’t have done a decent job and finished me off properly, could she? Oh no!  Just my luck to get knifed by some kackhanded novice who leaves me dying by inches all over the place instead.”

“Dying?” Ludlow yelped.

“Prob’ly,” Shagrat slurred weakly, closing his eye.  “It’ll be something like that, I expect.”  He didn’t say anything more.

The Hobbit experienced a pure moment of panic, an increasingly familiar emotion for him these days.  It had been bad enough, he thought, when Shagrat had gone running off into the night following the incident in the tavern, leaving Ludlow high and dry at the settlement two days before.  Ludlow had always been a respectable gentle-Hobbit and the idea of having to leave town at once - that or be chased out of it come the morning for helping Shagrat - had been dreadful to him.

 Left all alone he had had little idea what he should do - but at least he’d had the goal of trekking after the Uruk to focus his attention.  Loading up his donkey-cart he’d quickly struck out, following the bearing he thought the Orc would most likely have taken.  Then, late in the afternoon of the next day he’d been joined by Shagrat’s Warg, which had been conspicuously absent since it ran off just in advance of the flash-flood back in the mountain ravine.  The beast’s arrival had only improved Ludlow’s situation – in spite of a few false starts, that were due to a complete breakdown in inter-species communication:

“Find Shagrat!” the Hobbit had cried, over and again until his throat was getting sore and his voice was hoarse.  But apparently the Warg didn’t understand the common tongue and neither could Ludlow give it more appropriate instructions, because knew not even a word of the Black Speech. Eventually he’d come up with a non-verbal form of communication, by giving the beast a sniff of one of the blankets the Orc had been using.  After that the Warg caught on quite quickly, and had had no trouble following the Uruk’s trail.

Their donkey had been more of a problem.  It had kicked and stamped and jumped, even attempting a half-hearted rear up onto its hind feet at the approach of the Warg, of which it was clearly scared witless.  But it was an elderly animal and in spite of its initial shying, noisy hee-hawing and balking, it hadn’t enough energy to sustain a proper, fear-filled reaction.  For all the difficulties it had caused earlier on, Ludlow was immensely thankful he’d persevered and brought it with him anyway.  Faced with Shagrat bleeding to death on the ground in front of him, the Hobbit spent only a minute or two scampering back and forwards in panic, before he calmed himself down and set his mind to a plan.  It wasn’t necessarily a good plan, but at least it was a plan, of sorts.

He’d seen the lights and fires of a large mobile encampment down in the valley and – as they were otherwise stuck right in the middle of nowhere – correctly guessed that this must be the place that Shagrat had set out to visit.  Ludlow had no idea what sort of reception he and his Orcish companion would be likely to receive there but it was the nearest – in fact it was the only – possible source of help.  

The first step was getting Shagrat down off the hillside and into the valley.  Ludlow lowered the tailgate of his little donkey-cart and set about doing his best to roll the Uruk up onto the back of it.  Sturdy and stocky as the Hobbit was, he made only limited progress until Shagrat’s Warg, on seeing what he was doing, sidled up and joined in to help.  The beast was clearly used to dragging heavy objects about.  Ludlow’s eyes watered under the close-quarters pungent aroma of Warg-breath as, teeth snagged in the scruff of Shagrat’s overshirt, the animal made short-work of hauling its Orc-sized burden over the wooden boards and into the back of Ludlow’s trap. 

**

With one of them recovering from the effects of a recently-administered sharp blow to the head and the other sleeping off the effects of her own drugs, down in the Rohirrim camp both Faramir and Eowyn had been badly indisposed for most of the day.

Having agreed - by third-person proxy - that they had much to discuss, they’d scheduled a meeting, to be held on neutral territory, for later in the evening.  The Prince was making his way across from his quarters to meet with his wife and, most likely her aged counsellor, when he noticed that there was a very short little person leading a donkey-cart outside, trying to gain access to the camp.  The fellow’s way was being blocked by a pair of Eowyn’s guards who, for want of something better to do, were behaving obnoxiously; standing in the small person’s way, asking question after pointless question and officiously not letting him past.

“I said I’d like to see – that is, I’m here to see whoever’s in charge,” the little creature was insisting. Even to Ludlow’s own ears his voice sounded thin and reedy and pathetic in the dark.

At almost any other time the sudden and unexpected appearance of a Hobbit would have been a matter of note to Faramir, but at that moment he was almost too tired and heart-sick to care.  The Rohirrim were baiting the Halfing quite needlessly however and, as ever, Faramir’s sense of fair-play over-rode his weariness.  He went over to see if he could help resolve the problem.

“Your Highness,” one of the guards warned, as he pushed past them, “take care! For all we know this might be a trap.”

“Nonsense,” Faramir said, and then brusquely to the Hobbit, “state your business.”  He gestured to the Hobbit’s donkey-cart, which he’d left standing a short distance away on the grass.  “What are you hiding back there?”

The Hobbit waved his hands pathetically, eyes swimming with unshed tears of distress.  From what he said Faramir gathered that his travelling companion had been gravely wounded in an accident, and was in need of immediate assistance.  

“Let’s have a look at him,” Faramir told the Hobbit kindly.   “You needn’t worry.  You’ll find all the help you need here.”  He stepped closer to the little donkey-cart.  From where he was standing he could only see that there was a person who looked somewhat larger than was usual for a Hobbit lying under by a blanket in the trap.  “Isn’t your friend another Halfling too?”   

“Oh, no,” the Halfling explained, pulling the cover back to show Faramir, “he’s not.  He’s er –“

On seeing Shagrat lying passed out in the back of the little cart the Prince drew his breath sharply, in a quick, panicked gasp.

He rounded on the  Hobbit.  “What did you have to bring him here for?” Faramir demanded.  The two Rohirrim guards were starting to get interested, and he didn’t dare raise his voice above a whisper.

“He’s been injured!” Luldow exclaimed.  “Won’t you help him?  I don’t know what else to do!”

The Prince stared at him, his expression closed and unreadable. “What happened?”

“My friend said he was stabbed!  By a woman!”

As the pair of guardsmen stepped up towards them Faramir’s hands came away from Shagrat’s side stained with black wetness.  Just for a moment, Ludlow was horrified to see the taciturn man’s control begin to slip, and he looked easily as much at a loss to know what to do as the Hobbit himself had been, up on the mountain.  But then, with an effort he forced himself to think clearly.

“You two!  Step lively!” Faramir ordered the guards. “Help me bring this fellow in and - have a care while you’re about it.”

Ludlow led his donkey as far as it could go into the encampment, after which they all set about carrying the still-unconscious Shagrat the rest of the way.  Faramir and the Hobbit did their best to support his head and shoulders, and the two guardsmen had a leg each.  They’d only gone a little way when they had the bad luck to cross paths with the Lady Eowyn, who was on her way to keep her appointment with the Prince.  The speed with which the guards and Faramir dropped hold of their burden might have been comedic under other circumstances.

Eowyn glanced briefly at the prostrate Orc.  “Another stray for you to take under your wing, Faramir?” she said.  “After all this effort, haven’t you been able to recover your ‘true love’ as yet?  I can’t help but notice it showed little enough inclination to stay with you last night.   Surely the beast can’t have gone very far?”

Faramir stared at her.  Unlikely at it seemed – given Shagrat’s fairly unique appearance – his wife seemed genuinely unable to recognize him.

“No, he’s – this is a different one,” the Prince answered quickly.  He straightened up and stood in front of the Uruk, trying to prevent Eowyn from getting a better look at him.  “As I was saying, you’re to put him – just put it with the other ones,” he told the guardsmen.

“So we’re _not_ gonna be putting him in your Lordship’s tent?” the first guardsman said.  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?  Reason we’ve gotta carry him all this way?” 

“Yeah,” the other guard put in, “because earlier on I thought we were putting him in with you.  I’m sure you definitely told us -”

“Ha-ha-ha!” the Prince brayed, sounding slightly hysterical, “I’ve no idea why you’d assume - that is to say, perish the thought!” 

But Eowyn paid them no attention.  Looking Shagrat briefly up and down over Faramir’s shoulder, she said: “that looks to be a grievous injury.  It seems this one won’t last much longer, at least.  Something the rest of us can be thankful for, I suppose.”  She pulled away from her husband with hasty distaste.  

The Hobbit watched this exchange with mounting indignation, staring back and forward between the two protagonists.  That they were husband and wife, and their relationship was badly soured, was obvious. He’d heard stories about the beautiful Lady of Rohan, and the gallant good-looks of her beloved husband the Prince, but felt he’d either been seriously misinformed or that someone had been greatly over-stating the case for at that point there wasn’t much to choose between them: they were both drawn and haggard and looked angry, ill-humoured, and thoroughly out of sorts.  Ludlow wondered what on earth could have been happening between them.

Eowyn reminded her husband that she and her counsellor were expecting to speak with him shortly.  Barely bothering to take her leave she turned her back on him but stopped after only a few steps and addressed Faramir again.  “Won’t you walk with me?” she said.  “My counsellor Hrodgar is waiting for us, even now.”

Before he followed her Faramir seized the front of the Hobbit’s jacket and pulled him to one side.

“Go with the guards, quickly,” he said, pressing a weapon into Ludlow’s hands.   “You don’t know what the rest of them are like.  You’ll have to try – you must do everything you can to keep the other ones off him.”

“This Hallfling’s coming with you,” Faramir informed the two guardsmen. “The little, um, mercenary insists on keeping an eye on his investment.”  He slapped Ludlow on the shoulder in a false-comradely manner.  “Wanted to bring the Orc in for a reward, didn’t you say?”

“No, I don’t think I did,” The Hobbit was muttering, perplexed.

Faramir shook his head at him and told the guardsmen - “you two are to see that no harm comes to him while he’s about it.”

“Wait a minute - ’in with the other ones?’  What ‘other ones’?” Ludlow squeaked.  He could barely lift the sword Faramir had handed him.

“The other Orcs,” Faramir replied, under his breath. “They’re – quite frankly of late, they’ve been complaining about how hungry they are, even on the quite adequate rations we’ve been giving them.  They’re always asking for – for _fresh meat_.  And given their well-known tendencies, I don’t know what’s liable to happen.  In fact - I’m afraid of it.”

“You can’t leave me alone with them, then!”

“I’ll be with you as soon as I possibly can,” Faramir told him, pushing Ludlow after the guards, “you can count on it.”

What else could he do? Ludlow followed the two Rohirrim men, trotting unhappily after them. They were now pulling the still-recumbent Shagrat along by the arms, leaving his feet to drag behind him and after a short walk came to a smallish barricaded area, where they stopped.

Ludlow realised then that the perimeter of Faramir’s encampment was effectively open.  Really he’d been most unlucky to have been challenged while trying to gain access, because from here he was able to see that most of the ongoing guarding activity was actually being directed a sort of a camp-within-a-campground area, the place they’d now arrived.

Part of the cordoned-off area was made up of quite sizeable tree-trunks that had been sunk, or hammered into the earth, to form a broad circular wall.  Thorny brushwood and smaller saplings had been placed in the spaces between, filling the many gaps.  Around this make-shift compound was gathered quite a concentration of Rohirrim, and other troops.  They all wore exactly the same threatening, menacing look that the Hobbit remembered seeing on the faces of the men two nights before, when Shagrat had been accosted in the village tavern.  It was as if they were all waiting for and eagerly expecting trouble; for someone to get started on some violent kind of activity.

“What’s this?” Ludlow squeaked, full of consternation, standing on tip-toe to peek through a gap in the fence.

“That,” one of the Rohirrim guards told him, “is what you might call his Highness’ ‘special collection.’”

“Those are Orcs, what people have brung us,” the other one spat. “Now, have you ever seen such a wonderful collection of filthy, murdering scum?”

“But what’s he want with all these for?”

“Well Master Hobbit, now you’re asking the question!  Seeing as we’re all of us here under special instructions not to harm a hair on their stinking heads.  Not unless they start something first.”

“And now you know why they’re all saying milord the Prince,” the other Rohirrim said darkly, “is mad as the mist and snow.”

As the Rohirrim men unfastened the entrance to the compound, the Orcs on the other side of the barrier – of whom there were perhaps a dozen or so – were all careful to stay well out of their way.  The guards opened the gate, then lobbed Shagrat unceremoniously through.

As Ludlow began to protest about this unsympathetic treatment, the first guard made a show of holding the gate open for him. “So now you’ve a chance to see the goods are you in or are you out, little Master?” he grinned, exchanging a knowing look with his partner.  “Not so keen on watching our ‘investment’ now, are we – oh!”

He exclaimed because just then Ludlow, moving at slightly below waist-level had shoved past him, and entered the compound.

A snort or two of approval went up from the semi-circle of Shagrat’s compatriots who were waiting for him on the other side.  The captive Orcs watched the gate swing shut behind the Hobbit, their eyes glittering in the darkness.

Ludlow peered over at the waiting, gathered crowd.  “Oh, hullo, Azof,” he said, waving half-heartedly at the nearest of them. “Nice to see you again too, Rukush.  Well!  It’s been a while since I saw you hasn’t it, and we should definitely get together and catch up!  So how – er - how have you all been keeping?”

 


	18. The go-between

 

 

Ludlow was cowering next to Shagrat’s body – or possibly it was his corpse, because the Uruk hadn’t shown any signs of life for quite some time.  The resident Orcs were ignoring him, being otherwise engaged in the heated argument that had been raging since he and Shagrat arrived.

“’Experience in command’ you say?” Azof was yelling. “Hah!  Fucking Shaggers knows sweet fuck-all about that!”

“Dokuz was our boss,” Rukush repeated slowly.

Azof shook his head in disbelief.  “What about Dokuz?” he snapped.  “Dokuz turned out to be just as useless as that stupid useless tosser is!”

“Hear that Shaggers?” he ran over to Shagrat’s unconscious body and screamed, spittle flying off his fangs, straight into his face. “See what I mean?  You’re a tosser!  What’c’ha got to say about that?”  He went back to Rukush, waving his arms and bellowing in agitation.  “Fucking _useless_!”

Rukush didn’t bother to reply, because he was determined that the train of thought he was on – simple as it was - was not under any circumstances going to be derailed.  “And before that,” he said deliberately, “Shagrat was _Dokuz’s_ boss.”

Azof could easily see where this was heading.  “But don’tc’her see, Rooks,” he protested, making an obvious effort to calm himself, “Dokuz and all us lot wouldn’t of gotten _in_ this mess in the first place if it hadn’t been on account of that shit-stabbing, Tark-cock-loving, steaming great one-eyed _wanker_ there pushing in an’ stealing our friggin’ booty!  You don’t wanna _follow_ ‘im – you wanna deal out what’s been coming to him all these years!”

“No but don’t c’her reckon,” Rukush continued resolutely, “since he’s here, doesn’t that means it’s Shagrat oughter be in charge.  You did say we was in need of a new leader, Azof.  Matter of fact you was just sayin’ that when they fetched ‘im in.”

“’Appen it’s a sign,” another of the Orcs from Dokuz’s gang put in, sniggering under his breath. “You was just talking about questions of leadership, weren’t c’her?  Gotta be a sign, doesnit!”

“Stop stirring the shit!” Azof howled back at him, and appealed to Rukush to keep order.  “Rukush, tell ‘im!  Tell Nazhtuk, all right?  Who asked you anyway, Nazhtuk?  It’s got bleedin’ bugger-all to do with you!”

“Well ‘ee’s getting right on my tits, in‘ee!” Nazhtuk protested, “he’d do anyone’s head in.  Azof!” he shouted.  “Oi!  Azof!  I reckon it’s you who’s the shit-stabbin’ wanker, if anyone is!”

“You take that back!  I’ve never bummed anyone in me life!”

 “Oooo!  Fancy!  Innit nice for you!”

Rukush was – very sensibly - ignoring this useless exchange.  “Out the lot of us Shagrat has got the most experience in command and that, hasn’t he?” he persevered.

“Experience in command?  Fucking fuckwitted Shagrat?” Azof screeched.  “All that useless tosser’s ever done keep his brains in his prick and lose everyone the plot!  Put Shaggers back in charge?  Never in this world!  See if I won’t gut ‘im – ‘cause I will!  I’ll gut that twatting, sorry-arsed, dick-headed _wanker_ with my bare hands, if I have to!”

With that he leapt towards the injured Uruk, his back hunched over and his claws flexing threateningly.

When Azof ran at him, Ludlow knew without doubt that he was done for.  By bracing one end – it was the part he’d been privately referring to as ‘the handle end’, being hazy about where on a sword one should start appropriately using such technical terms as ‘the pommel’ and ‘hilt’ – by bracing the handle end against the ground he’d justabout been succeeding in propping Faramir’s sword up in what he’d hoped was a good defensive stance.  As Azof approached, however, Ludlow realised that he’d no chance whatever of protecting himself, let alone an unconscious Shagrat from the furious, charging Uruk.

But Rukush stepped bodily into Azof’s path then, flexing his shoulder muscles in a way that all at once added a surprising amount of bulk to his silhouette, making him look inordinately much bigger that he had done before.  He stopped his opponent with the palm of his hand placed flat in the centre of the smaller Uruk’s chest, and although Rukush himself didn’t move so much as an inch when Azof ran into him, the force of the other Orc’s rebound very much suggested that Azof might just have come into sharp contact with a nearly-immovable object.  Azof obviously knew he was out-matched.  He backed down immediately.

“It’s decided?” Rukush said to him.  “Anyone else got their two-pennorth’ they want to put in?” he asked, calling over to the other Orcs and Uruks, who were all still hanging back as far from the entrance gate as possible.  They shrugged and mumbled among themselves non-committaly.

“ _Fack_ it, we’re none of us even facking _arsed_ , Rukush,” one of them shouted back at him.

“They’re saying you should do whatever you bloody well feel like!” Nazhtuk added.

“And I was only _saying_ ,” Azof grumbled. “Can’t a body even speak his mind these days?”

Rukush ignored him.  He plucked Ludlow’s sword, which he kept on trying to point, out of the Hobbit’s hands.  He then picked the still-trembling Ludlow up off the ground and deposited him a short distance out of the way.  As an afterthought he came back with the sword and set it carefully on the ground, leaving it within easy reach beside him.

“Maz!” Rukush called, “Oi! Maz!  Come and have a look at this!”

Maz was the smaller Orc who’d accompanied Dokuz and Azof when they’d been pursuing Shagrat and Ludlow in the mountains.  He sidled towards them across the compound.

“Oh, hullo again Maz!” Ludlow called.  “Is everyone from your gang here then?” he said to Rukush in surprise.

“Near ‘nuff as makes no odds,” Azof put in.  “’Cept - except for poor old Dokuz, a’ course,” he gulped, with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“But – but how did you all get captured?”

“We was ambushed,” growled Azof quickly.  “By townies.  Almost the whole villageful, while we all was – was well indisposed.  It don’t count though.  It weren’t a fair fight.”

“’Indisposed’?” Nazhtuk scoffed.  “That what you call it Azof?  Pissed out our faces, more like.”

“Well?  What abaht it?” Azof snapped. “You got something against a feller ‘aving a drink of his own grog?”

“No, I don’t hold you, Azof, responsible for anythink,” the other Orc commented, and then added snidely - “it’s only that you was _supposed_ to be keepin’ watch.”

“An’ I weren’t the only one!” Azof blustered.

Nazhtuk said nothing for a while, but then in quiet but distinctly audible voice muttered: “…..useless slacking Uruk fucking tossers….”

Azof turned on him.  “What did you call me?”

“Ignore them,” Rukush advised the Hobbit, who was watching the new and escalating argument anxiously.  “Azof’s always trying to pick a fight with someone.”  He bent down and began prodding curiously at Shagrat.

“Get your grubby mitts out, Rukush!”  Maz ordered, joining them. “Last thing he bloody needs is you poking around in there.”

Rukush’s grubby mitts were soon replaced by the – to Ludlow’s eye - equally filthy digits of the Orc Maz, who carried out a thorough - though dreadfully unhygienic - examination of Shagrat’s wound.  There was little else that could pass for entertainment in the stockade, and they were soon surrounded by a mixed crowd of Orcish and Uruk spectators.

“Blade’s nicked ‘is spleen most prob’ly,” Maz concluded at length, “which’d explain all this shit –“ he gestured dismissively at the masses of clotted blood and gore - “but it’s only cut a little bit - or he’d ‘ave well pegged it, long before now.”  The other Orcs, all of whom had gained through hands-on experience an above-average working knowledge of basic physiology nodded in agreement.

“Ee’s lucky, actually,” Maz continued, “seein’ how it has all bled out already, look?  Worse thing wiv’ this kind of blade-stick is if it goes under the skin, innit?  If it can’t flood it all out sorta goes down an’ pools in yer belly dunnit?  Swells up an’ blackens your guts.  Not long after - you’ll’ve ‘ad it.”

“Anything we can do?” said Rukush.  

Maz scratched his head.  “Like what?  Save all the bother an’ knock ‘im on the head directly -  that the kind of thing you mean?”

Rukush tutted.  “No.  Shaggers’s new leader isn’t he?  Been to all that trouble deciding, and now we’ve said.  We need to _stop_ him pegging it, not the other way around.”

“Ah!” Maz said. “You’re talking about first aid and shit.  Nah.  Best leave it.  Likely do more harm than good if we was to start guddling about in there.  But I will say ‘ee’s done ‘imself no favours, going walkabout on it the way he went.  If ‘ee comes a cropper, it’ll be that what’s caused it.”

“Shouldn’t we sew it up or seal it?  Stuff like that?”

“Cauterize the wound, you mean?  S’pose that could ‘elp,” Maz replied mildly, thinking that if nothing else, the procedure Rukush was suggesting might prove to be a bit of a laugh.  Getting up he went over to the meagre fire the Orcs had been feeding with excess splinters gleaned from the timber walls that penned them in.  “Oo’s got a bit of metal we can heat up on ‘em, then?”

*********

After leaving her husband engrossed with his latest Orc, Eowyn made her way to her elder counsellor Hrodgar’s quarters, where she and Faramir had arranged to meet.

With difficulty, the old man had managed to hide the full extent of his dismay when he learned that his protégée had imbibed a measure of the drugged draught intended for Faramir.  He was dreadfully concerned for her well-being - as he had been all day, and when she arrived alone to see him that evening Hrodgar seized the opportunity to assess her state of health.  He measured Eowyn’s pulse and tested her reflexes, and after smelling her breath and looking closely at the pupils of her eyes was able to conclude that she appeared to be in fine physical health.

“You should experience no long-term effects,” he told her.  “But what possessed you to drink that medicine, my Lady?  My intent was that it should be given to your husband, alone.”

In spite of the unworried air he’d been affecting, Eowyn couldn’t fail to notice Hrodgar’s extreme anxiousness on her behalf and was exasperated by his duplicity.

“That was no ‘medicine’!” the Lady cried, “as I now know, having felt its effects upon myself!  A fast-acting poison would be a better name for that ‘medicine’!  With what manner of preparation did you have me dose him?”

Hrodgar regarded her thoughtfully.   “If you recollect,” he said, “you said to me that you wished to have your husband ‘stopped’  - and with utmost haste!  I did no more than was necessary to accomplish that.”

“I did not wish this to be done at the expense of poor Faramir’s health!” the Lady protested.  “I am sure I tasted but the smallest measure – yet the effects are with me still.”

The old man waved Eowyn’s objections aside.  “There is every chance that given time, your husband should make a full enough recovery.”

“Do you mean that he will recover from the malady that originally afflicted him?  Or will this recovery be from the effects of the ‘treatment’ that we ourselves have applied in our fine pretence of curing him?  For I can see now it has been nothing but deception from that first day!”

“Who’s to say,” Hrodgar replied, pointing out that she, Eowyn, had been a willing enough accomplice – initially, at least.  “You must have surely noticed his symptoms worsening as time progressed.”

“And neither would I count myself as blameless in this!” Eowyn cried.  “I could not help but see how ill that brew was making him – truly that was a sorceror’s potion you gave me!  Yet still I refused to recognize the truth.  Poor Faramir!  As much deceived as he has been I hate to acknowledge that I, too, have knowingly deceived myself.”

“If there was any deception it was wholly justified,” Hrodgar replied.  “Since by his actions and his sordid conduct your ‘poor’ and ‘princely’ Faramir has qualified himself to expect nothing better than the treatment you now choose to name as our deceit.”  It infuriated him to hear his Lady berating herself and by now Hrodgar was trembling with indignation, keenly-felt on Eowyn’s behalf.

“You should not speak so Hrodgar,” Eowyn said kindly.  Deeply was she shocked to hear her old friend’s bitter tone.  Much as she would have liked to soothe him, she could not in good conscience let his recent actions pass without comment.  “I trusted that your fealty to me, at least, would keep you acting in good faith,” she said.

“As for trust and faith,” Hrodgar cried, “what is your husband to me?  If we must speak plainly, is it not true that brought his fate upon himself?  When I think of him dishonouring you in such a manner!  Casting you aside for the foul embraces of that creature -”

Her face blotched red and white with embarrassment, Eowyn made it clear that she had never in fact been ‘cast aside,’ telling her counsellor that it was she, herself, who had been the instigator of her and Faramir’s separation.

“I left him, Hrodgar, with little explanation, after only a scant few months of marriage.  And he did not take up with the – with his Orc, for some time until after I had already left.”

It had never occurred to Hrodgar that following his Lady’s abrupt desertion, Faramir might actually count himself the injured party in all of this.  He was completely thrown to hear it, but any further discussion of the subject was cut short because at that point the Prince himself arrived for their scheduled meeting.  

With a tentatively polite greeting Eowyn tried to welcome him, but Faramir dismissed her angrily, demanding that Eoywn and her adviser give him an explanation for their recent behaviour.

“It’s more time than I can spare,” he told her, “but I’ll give you five minutes to explain to me exactly what it is that you and your fine old family bondsman have been plotting around here.”

Hrodgar straightened his back and Eowyn saw that the proud old Rohirim was preparing to step forward and shoulder the blame for everything that had happened.  And Faramir’s mood looked dangerous; he might even consider himself quite within his rights to begin extracting immediate and bloody retribution from her elderly assistant.  Moving with great haste she placed herself directly between the two men and, winging her hands in genuine distress, she gazed beseechingly up into her husband’s face.

“Faramir, I can’t begin to tell you how much in error we two have been,” she said.  “It’s all happened because of the most dreadful, ghastly mistake.”

**

By this stage Faramir had little patience for listening to the two Rohirrims’ obviously self-serving explanations of ‘awful misunderstandings’ etc.  But, he heard them out, nodding politely in what he felt were the appropriate places, and graciously accepted Eowyn’s heartfelt apology and her prostrate protestations of grief.  Then, with a curt dismissal, he left them.  Out he went to see his Orcs.

Following a brief, shouted altercation with the guardsmen at the gate, the Prince was admitted to their compound.  The inmates fell back at his approach and took care to keep well away from him, all clearly being at pains to avoid anything that could be misconstrued by their captors an act of aggression.

Shagrat was slumped near the wall on the far side.  Faramir ran across to him and knelt down by his side. 

“How is he faring?” he demanded, addressing his question to the Hobbit who was sitting nearby.

The poor man’s voice was shaking and he seemed utterly distraught.  Feeling sorry for him, the Hobbit explained that Rukush and the others had been trying, after their own barbaric fashion – for the reek of scorched Uruk-flesh still hung heavy in the air - to treat Shagrat’s wound.   With luck the injury might just prove not to be a mortal one after all.

Faramir’s joy and relief were obvious when he heard this.  Ludlow was even beginning to thinking of revising his first impression - which was that the Prince seemed a decidedly cold fish; when Faramir put back the hood of his cloak, which until then he’d worn up and covering his head against the cold night air. The yellowish strands of his hair glinted dully in the light of the lantern he was carrying.

The Hobbit jumped up in surprise and stared at him open-mouthed, completely dumbstruck.

“ _You’re_ Goldilocks?” Ludlow exclaimed, finding his voice at last.  “You – you ruddy well are!”  Now he was turning pink in the face with indignation.  “You’re Goldilocks, aren’t you?”

The Hobbits Faramir had known before were an amiable, easy-going bunch; to a man generous and kind-hearted, open-minded and above all tolerant.  This one however appeared to be beyond shocked – he was clearly appalled by him, and Faramir wondered what he could have done to deserve it.  Inclining his head slightly, he affected a bored and drawling tone to cover his surprise.

“Oh, that’s just – er – a silly pet name Shagrat use to call me,” he said.  “Dreadfully over-familiar, and a bit sentimental, really - but of course he is an Orc so what else would one expect?  You’re - ” he stopped, searching for an appropriate concept, knowing very well that the Uruk didn’t, as such, have friends.  “You’re some kind of associate of his, then?”

“Yes.  I am.  I’ve grown very fond of him.  And because of that I feel I have to tell you I can’t entirely approve of this,” the Hobbit replied.

“You don’t approve?” Faramir exclaimed.  “I beg your pardon!  I wasn’t aware we were asking for your blessing.  What is it you don’t approve of, exactly?”

“I don’t approve of _you_ ,” Ludlow said bluntly.  “Orc or not, I think he could do better.  I think he certainly deserves someone who treats him better.”

Faramir gaped at him.

“He’s had a hard life, the Hobbit added.  “Those terrible scars he’s got – and they’re _all over_ him.  You must have seen.”

At this Faramir felt a quick and completely unreasonable pang of jealousy.  Of course he had seen, because the marks that past violence had left on Shagrat were impossible to miss, but he found himself wondering when and under what circumstances the Hobbit had had an opportunity to do so because, as he very well knew, keeping himself completely and permanently covered with clothing was practically an obsession of Shagrat’s.

“He’s an Orc,” Faramir explained. “He served as a solider in the Black Army for longer than you, or I, or anyone we’re likely to know about could reasonably think of.  I can’t pretend to know everything that’s happened to him but of course he’s had a hard life.”

“You’re saying you don’t know?  How could you, of all people, possibly not know?”

“Explain to me what you’re talking about?” Faramir asked, trying hard not to lose his composure.

 “Well!” Ludlow told him tartly, “I might not have known Shagrat long enough for him to have any ‘dreadfully over-familiar’ pet names for _me_ , but even after our relatively brief acquaintance I know him well enough to know exactly how he talks about _you_ in his sleep.  It’d be difficult to miss.”

“What?”

The little creature went on, furiously.  “If you can even call it talking.  Yelling – pleading for help, _begging_ – and he’s only ever talking to you.  ‘Help me, Goldilocks.  Don’t leave me like this, Goldilocks.’” The Hobbit rounded on Faramir.  “What did you do to him?” he demanded.  “Whatever it was I think you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself.”

Faramir was silent for a moment, considering his past conduct towards Shagrat.  When all was said and done he was only – an Orc, after all.  In the light of that could Faramir’s treatment of him really have been so terribly bad? 

“Bad dreams?” hooted Azof, who’d moved closer to listen in on them.  Faramir started up in surprise.  “Bollocks to that!” the Orc jeered.  “Ain’t we all got bad enough dreams?  That’s _rubbish_.”

“Take no notice,” Ludlow advised. “That fellow’s a known troublemaker.  He’s no idea what he’s talking about.”

The Rohirrim and other guards keeping watch outside had been eyeing Faramir’s actions with growing disapproval.

“My Lord,” one of them called to him then.  “At the boundary of our encampment – there is something we think you ought to see.”

Faramir strode over to meet him.  “Can’t you deal with it yourselves?”

“But we cannot tell how it might comply with your earlier orders, Sir.  It may be another of - the enemy.”

The Hobbit’s face fell and he hurried after Faramir, trying to attract his attention by tugging on his cloak.  “That,” he gulped, “that – what that man’s talking about – it might be something I had with me from before.”  

So Faramir pulled Ludlow after him and set off to investigate.  Not far away, just at the outermost edge of the campground where the meagre lamplight gave way to night, Shagrat’s Warg was pacing back and forth.  It was being watched by an anxious group of guardsmen.

“This – mutt - is surely the beast that was accompanying the fugitive in Ithilien,” said the guard who’d been sent to fetch Faramir.  The man was a life-long member of Eowyn’s retinue.

Even at this distance Faramir could hear his company’s horses screaming and stamping in agitation in their paddock.  They had obviously caught scent of the wolfish creature from clear across the campground and were already half-mad with fear because of it.  It was obvious that the monstrous animal before them was no ordinary type of beast.  Faramir gave his men the order to prepare to shoot.

“Didn’t you hear?” the Hobbit protested.  “I said that’s Shagrat’s!  You simply _can’t_!  It’s a great big sweetheart, really!  Completely harmless!”

Unluckily the Warg had just turned to face the armed men, and at that point was snarling and slavering away wildly, effectively demonstrating Ludlow’s words to be utterly false.

“Usually it’s very well behaved!”  the Hobbit exclaimed.  “One word from Shagrat and it’s always done exactly as he says!”

“Will it attack when he commands it?” Faramir countered.  “Half a dozen of my men would swear they’ve seen that happen for themselves.”

Ludlow thought about Azof and Dokuz, and how Shagrat had told the Warg to chase them off.  

“Well - it did go after that Dokuz, once – but it was only because he’d been threatening Shagrat.   I mean I call it ‘threatening,’ but Shagrat said it was more of a working-over they’d been giving him  So Dokuz was asking for trouble, if you look at it like that.”

 “Where is Dokuz incidentally?” Ludlow continued, peering around.  “Azof and Rukush and them are here so - he’s not indisposed as well is he?”

“’Indisposed’?” one of the men behind him scoffed. “More like - ‘beheaded!’”

Ludlow caught his breath, horrified by that.  Until this point he hadn’t quite appreciated the seriousness of the Orcs’ situation.  

Throughout their discussion Ludlow had surreptitiously been moving sideways, so as to place himself -  a Hobbit-sized little living shield - between Faramir’s men and the Warg.

As if that was going to make any difference, Faramir thought, eyeing him sourly and wondering whether he ought not just to have the annoying little blighter dispatched as well, two for the price of one.  It could look like a dreadful unfortunate accident easily enough.

Realising that he had Faramir’s, and the attention of everyone else now fully on him, Ludlow began backing away from them and closer to the Warg which, at the same time, he was doing his best to shoo off.  But it wouldn’t go and in the end he started running towards it, clapping and flapping his hands.

“You’ve done what you can,” Faramir told him.  Crossing the distance between them in a few long-legged steps he grabbed hold of Ludlow and collared him.  “Nobody would claim it wasn’t a brave attempt but I’m afraid you’ll have to stand aside now.   This beast is making our horses restless and I won’t be answerable for what happens otherwise.”

Meanwhile Ludlow was having a sudden brainwave. “I think - perhaps it doesn’t understand!” he pleaded.  “Shagrat usually talks to it the way that Orcs speak to each other – you know, in that funny language that always makes them sound so angry!  ‘Grr, Grr, Rarr-rarrr-rarrrh!’ and all how it goes.  Maybe that’s it!”

Faramir looked undecided, and then decidedly uncomfortable.  Not meeting the gaze of the guardsmen close to him he set Ludlow down then stepped forward alone, and after a moment said -  something - to the Warg; just one or two words growled out in a consonant-heavy, harsh-sounding, snarl.  

The Warg put it ears forwards at him and hesitated.  Faramir, flinging his arm out in an obvious ‘go away’ gesture repeated what he’d said, and then to Ludlow – and everybody else’s - amazement the animal retreated a few skipping steps backwards, turned, and trotted lightly away.

“Oh!  So you can speak it too!”  Ludlow exclaimed, goggling up at him and feeling a little impressed in spite of himself.   He supposed that – Faramir’s treatment of Shagrat notwithstanding - and also putting aside the abrupt and off-hand manners he’d been demonstrating that night, the Prince could be said to be an attractive enough prospect – as far as good social standing and had a fadingly handsome face went.   But up until this point the Hobbit had really been struggling to understand what on earth Shagrat could possibly see in him.

The Rohirrim guardsmen, on the other hand, were very far from being impressed by Faramir’s recent antics. 

“What did you say to it, my Lord?” one of the men demanded, asking what guarantee there was to stop the animal from returning.

“Curse words, mainly, for which I wouldn’t attempt to hazard a literal translation,” Faramir replied.  “But I’d be surprised if it hasn’t got the message.  I should think we’ll have seen the last of it.”

A fresh round of muttering and whispering between the guards commenced.

“Well?”  Faramir said.  “Might as well just spit it out.  Is there something you wish to discuss with me?”

“It’s only there’s been - talk,” the first guardsman replied.

“What kind of talk?” asked Faramir, as if he couldn’t guess what – or rather, who, they’d been talking about.

“About you, Sir and – well, _them_ ,” the man continued, nodding over in the direction of the Orcs.  “And after what we all heard plain as day just now - some of us, we’d like to know how is it that your Lordship’s come to be so well acquainted with that dreadful language.”

“He was talking that black speech of theirs like a native and it’s not right,” one of the Rohirrim men muttered angrily.  “Could be his Highness  is under some dark enchantment?   Same way they say he was last time, come the end of the War?”

Faramir shut his eyes.  He’d been wondering how long it would take someone to jump to that well-worn conclusion, and had been dreading it.  His brusque treatment of Shagrat earlier that evening - though partly borne of panic - had also been a last-ditch effort to throw the others off the scent.  Faramir knew there was little chance now of reconciling his company to the fact that in their eyes his treatment of the Orcs continued to be far more lenient than it should’ve been.

The assembled guardsmen seemed to need little enough convincing: they were only too willing to accept and then act upon the notion that the Prince was not in full possession of himself - and their mutinous grumblings immediately increased.

“Been sleepin’ the best of the day away,” the first Rohirrim continued, his voice getting noticeably louder as he roused the other troops.  “And we’ve seen narry hide nor hair of him, since lately his Highness’s only been venturing out at night!” 

This was true; Faramir’s altered pattern of wakefulness was indeed one unlooked-for side-effect of the drug-dose-regimen that Eowyn had been following.

“It’s claimed he was ‘taken ill’ but what if they were all covering up for him instead?  The lady Eowyn, and the old man too?  This is wizard’s work, if ever I’ve seen it.”

The situation was about to turn ugly, but just then Faramir received assistance from a most unexpected quarter.

When the Warg’s arrival had started panicking their horses all the Rohirrim, including Eowyn and her counsellor had set out to investigate.   On their way back from ensuring that their agitated animals were in no immediate danger the pair came upon Faramir, who was trying to single-handedly quell what had every appearance of being a bona fide armed uprising.

Rightly or wrongly Hrodgar still cared very little for his Highness the Prince – but he counted Eowyn’s reputation as a completely different matter.  The old man had heard some loud-mouthed person impugning his mistress - openly doubting her word! - and absolutely refused to stand for it.  For an elderly gentleman he could, when necessary, move with a formidable turn of speed: swiftly he made his way over to the troops and before most of the men there had even registered his presence began cuffing the Rohirrim who’d insulted Eowyn heavily about the head.

“Who are you to spread lies about your betters?” the old man bellowed. “I remember you of old, Hrof-sig Silgmunn-son!   Hrof-sig the empty-headed, the ever-prattling youth and despair of your good father.   I see the years have not yet taught you when it’s best to hold your tongue!” He seized the guardsman by the ear and twisted it, causing the would –be rabble-rouser to wail out in protest. “To spread such lies and gossip!” Hrodgar continued, yanking viciousy on his captive’s ear-lobe.  “For shame!  Apologize to the Lady Eowyn at once!”

“You should apologize to my husband, also,” Eowyn murmured.

“And apologize to me, myself!” Hrodgar added.

“Beg pardon, Milady, and you too, Sirs, I meant no disrespect I’m sure,” Hrof-sig grovelled, bowing meekly down.

Despite the guardsman being almost twice the size of the decrepit counsellor who had seized him, it didn’t occur to Hrof-sig to challenge Hrodgar or resist.  Hrodgar was well-respected by his countrymen and had instructed most of the Rohirrim men present at some time or other during their youth.  His treatment of the burly guardsman - exactly as if he’d been a naughty school-boy caught in some trivial bit of mischief – took them all back to the time they’d spent under his tutelage, for Hrodgar would ever be remembered by his former pupils as being a strict and uncompromising disciplinarian.

Once Hrof-sig had finished stammering out his apologies Hrodgar dropped his hold on him, clicking his tongue exaggeratedly.  It was an irreverent gesture, and just what was needed to defuse the difficult situation.  The tension that had been hanging over the group began dissipating at once.

“Sir?” prompted the first guardsman, looking directly to Faramir for his orders – for the first time in days.

“That’s been quite enough excitement,” Faramir replied.  “If everyone could go about their business then the rest of us will be able to turn in for the night.”

Eowyn, her husband and her counsellor waited together until the other men departed.  Then they began a slow walk back towards the camp.  Ludlow the Hobbit, for the time being forgotten about, trailed along behind.

“Well, Faramir,” Eoywn said at last, “perhaps now at least, you can be happy.”

“’Happy’?” he replied irritably, still harassed and irritated following the recent confrontation. “And why would you think I should have reason to feel so, Eowyn?”

The lady smiled.  “Because I think the Orc that arrived this evening is the one for whom you have so earnestly these long months been searching.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” Faramir said, feeling foolish.

“I still have eyes in my head, Faramir,” Eowyn said quietly.  “And even if had I not recognized him full well for myself I could not have failed to know  - when I first saw how you looked at him - what that creature means to you.”

“Now you have obtained the Orc you wanted,” Hrodgar broke in, not even attempting to conceal his disapproval and disgust, “would it be safe to assume we may begin dispatching the others in the morning?   Assuming of course that the remainder are surplus to your Highness’  ‘special requirements’?”

“Now, hold on a minute,” Ludlow squeaked, running up behind them, “that’s hardly going to be playing fair with everyone else, is it?”  Intimidated by the guardsmen and the argument and now by the fine, courtly folk all discussing lofty matters that on the face of it appeared to have little to do with him, he’d been keeping his own counsel, and had been thinking it best to stay out of sight.  Now he was so indignant he quite forgot to feel embarrassed for barging in uninvited, when the big-folk were talking.

“The Halfling’s right,” Faramir agreed quickly.  “At this moment those Orcs can’t in good conscience be charged with any specific crime.  We can’t even say for certain that they are planning to engage in further mischief.”

“I am not accustomed to asking Orcs for an account of their future intentions!” Hrodgar replied.  “I find it’s safest to assume they intend nothing _but_ harm – harm that we should attempt to pre-empt wherever possible.  That, of course, is what I am at this moment suggesting.”

Eowyn was also unconvinced.  “All we know of their kind is that they exist with but one purpose, and that is to enact the most savage acts of violence.”

Ludlow had seen enough of Orcs to acknowledge the truth in what Eowyn had said.  But he’d also spent some time among them - been privy to certain amount of the quieter sides of Orcish life - and thought he might have seen traces of another sort of side to them as a result.   

He tried to make his point.  “It isn’t as if _all_ they’re interested in is – well, carnage and mayhem any more.”

Hrodgar snorted condescendingly at him. “Do you think so?  I would argue otherwise.  Rest assured that in our homeland we have been subject to Orcish depredations for surpassing many years.  We know their delight lies in nothing but causing pain, suffering and lasting destruction.”

“Oh!  But that’s not true!  They’ve picked up all sorts of personal interests and hobbies and everything, now!”

“Such as?” Hrodgar gave him a withering look.

Ludlow couldn’t think of anything, off the cuff.  “Maybe –“ he said, “maybe we’d be better off asking them!” 

The Hobbit led them over to the side of the Orcs’ enclosure and called to one of the smaller inmates. Maz came sidling up to speak to them.

“Is there anything apart from rippin’ stuff up and gettin’ bloody what I likes doing in me spare time?” the little Orc sounded perplexed.  “Now yer’ askin’!”

He spent a little while thinking about the question. “Well,” he answered, “ I suppose I quite likes cookery meself.  Although - I gotta say – cookery does ‘ave, well, _elements_ of what you might call the ol’ guttin,’ rendin’ and killin’. Though I will say I’ve come to appreciate it’s best if you don’t go about it in that order, not any more.  Not  if it’s gonna be fit for the table.  Seeing as that def’n’tly affects the flavour, dunnit?”

“Meat goes all squishy,” Azof added.  He was bored, and had followed uninvited, close on Maz’s heels.   “Makes it taste like _yuk_.”

“And, before I were learning off this ‘un,” - Maz gestured at the Hobbit - “to do cookin’ wiv more’n one ingredient and everythink.”

“Fancy metal-working’s good as well.”  Azof made his contribution to the discussion.  “That ear-plug what they heated an’ stuck in the big ‘ole in Shaggers’ side.  All very well but did anyone notice the filigree scroll-work it ‘ad all over it?  Real, proper delicate stuff.”

(As it happens, Maz had; it had stuck to the edges of the wound and made quite a nasty mess.)

“Yeah?  That were only one of mine!”

Eowyn stepped back, looking shocked – perhaps by the novel concept that it was indeed possible (although admittedly in this case not especially enlightening) to engage in dialogue with Orcs.  Otherwise she might just have been reacting to the grisly details being vouchsafed by them.

“This is irrelevant.  Speaking with Orcs is irrelevant.  Hardly the most pertinent issue at hand,” Hrodgar retorted with impatience, feeling that they were becoming dangerously side-tracked.

“Assuming we’ve agreed that we can’t lawfully, or in good conscience dispatch these – fellows,” Faramir said, “then what issue would you see as being most important?”

“The issue I see as being important is the question of what we’re going to do with them!” Hrodgar replied.  “They can’t simply be released – set free into the wider countryside without so much as a by-your-leave!  Nobody is going to be prepared to tolerate a band of Orcs camping out on their doorstep.  Even if for the sake of the argument - as I remain entirely unconvinced by Prince Faramir’s reasoning - we were to consider letting them walk free as his Highness seems to be advocating, inflicting so many Orcs upon any one area of the country is out of the question!   Undoubtedly we would encounter vehement objections wherever we attempted to deposit them.  What’s to be done with them in that case, then?  Where else could they possibly go?”

 Panting, Hrodgar subsided.  He was sure that he’d brought to light more than enough practical objections to ensure that Faramir’s crazed proposal for the lenient treatment of Orcs would be permanently discarded.

“If that’s the main problem well - it’s easy, then!”  Ludlow piped up. “Because I know just the place!”  He went on, speaking quickly as the others all turned to stare at him.   “It’s quite far-off.  Orcs seem to like it, and it’s awfully remote.  There’s no other people up there, and – “  he felt uncomfortable not telling the whole truth but under present circumstances though it best not to mention his friend the Uruk’s involvement – “it belongs to me, actually, because - I own it.  I’d be happy to give them all a new start there.  And I’ve got the paperwork and everything!”

“Perhaps if they were truly willing to depart - and we could be certain they would agree to co-operate,” Eowyn began hesitantly.  In truth she couldn’t have cared less about what happened to the Orcish contingent, but in the aftermath of what had passed between them, felt duty-bound to side with Faramir.

“Oh but we’ll bugger right off!  You can count on that.” Azof nodded through the bars.

“We get out ov’ ‘ere, we’ll go as far as you like.” Maz agreed. “Honest, guv.’”

Following Eowyn’s lead, Hrodgar uneasily agreed to the idea in principle.  It was late and so they arranged to thrash out the details of the arrangement in the days to come.

******

The Prince more or less lived at Shagrat’s side after that.  The Orc was still unconscious and Faramir stayed with him all through the night and for most of the next day.   When he began to show signs of improvement however, and as soon as definitely started reviving, the Prince bolted.

Ludlow bided his time, assuming that Faramir would be bound to pay a call on his Uruk sooner or later.  After another day and night passed without a visit the Hobbit set out to track him down.  On being admitted to the Prince’s quarters Ludlow found Faramir dressed in travelling clothes; his tent was empty and his belongings neatly packed and stacked.

The Hobbit didn’t stand on ceremony. “Where are you off to?” he asked in surprise.

Faramir had business that needed his attention in a nearby district.  It was the tradition in Gondor at the time of year for Heads of State - or in this case Faramir acting as royal envoy - to tour outlying areas and pay a series of formal visits.

“It’s the mid-winter celebration,” he told Ludlow, feeling he owed the Hobbit at least a few words of explanation.  “They’re expecting to see, well – someone from the new King’s court, at least.  The arrangement was made some time ago and it isn’t a responsibility I’m prepared to set aside.  I’m acting in this as stand-in for the King himself, you see.”

_Acting as stand-in for the King in this as in so many other matters_ , Faramir thought to himself tiredly.

He knew he ought to have been well enough used to this sort of thing by this stage of his life – and yet it was still wearying to have to think of oneself as being a complete and perpetual disappointment.

Considering all the other people he’d striven, and consistently failed to impress, the hopes Faramir had held for his Uruk had in a way been higher than most - perhaps because he’d always been aware on some level that with even the slightest effort on his part, Shagrat would’ve been the safest of bets.   At one point the Uruk would have said, he’d have gone through – done _anything_ for Faramir, scarcely needing to be asked.  

Now those hopes were dashed.  The Prince could barely bring himself to accept that although the Orc’s affections had once been wide-open for the taking, it was clear from their conversation – on that last, dreadful night they’d talked - that he’d been unable to convince Shagrat he was sincere in his feelings for him.  And he’d tried so desperately to win him over!   To Faramir this counted as much more than just the latest in a life-long series of bungled charm-offensives.  His failure to secure Shagrat was making him doubt himself, and to wonder whether Eowyn had been right when they quarrelled and she scoffed at him; when she said she thought his choice of partner had less to do with _true love_ than with some kind of basic deficiency on Faramir’s part; a deep-seated belief that he was unworthy of being loved by any ‘normal’ person or type of creature.  Even Shagrat – the Orc himself - had suggested as much, and now Faramir wondered if he could really have been so blind as to not see it.  He felt heart-sick at the very thought.

Ludlow cleared his throat loudly. “And what about Shagrat?” 

The Prince, instead of answering the question just stood where he was with a stricken expression, staring off into space.

Faramir looked as miserable he could be, Ludlow thought.  His lady wife and her counsellor and their horse-riding guardsmen – now those people were angry; they were angry, hostile and antagonistic and as for the captive Orcs well, with their fate hanging in the balance they - quite understandably - spent their entire time walking on eggshells, completely on tenterhooks.

The Prince, however, really seemed hard-hit; far more than Ludlow would’ve thought to give him credit for.

“What about Shagrat?” he prompted again, in a somewhat gentler tone.

“By any chance has he – has he asked for me as yet?” Faramir replied.   He tried, but wasn’t quite managing to sound nonchalant.

“He hasn’t said anything to anybody, much,” Ludlow admitted.  “But if you don’t go and see him before you leave I’m sure he’ll be most terribly upset.”

“I think not.  I think I can guarantee with some degree of certainty that I’m the very last person he’d wish to see,” Faramir retorted bitterly, thinking about the barbed remarks and ugly home truths Shagrat had hurled at him so viciously during their last meeting.  “He’s far beyond merely being ‘terribly upset’ with me.  When I last saw him he made himself perfectly clear.”

“Have you had a fight?”

“Yes,” said Faramir.  “And the subject of that fight is something that will be remaining strictly between Shagrat and myself.  It’s not something I wish to – _ever_ – discuss.”  As he remembered the things he’d been accused of by the Uruk, and the painful revelation of how he really felt about him, any residual doubts that Faramir might have been having about leaving before speaking to him were immediately extinguished.  Their entire situation was a sordid mess - as Shagrat himself would no doubt agree, and at that moment Faramir resolved to try and put it behind him.

“I wasn’t asking you to talk about it!” the Hobbit protested.  He had easily guessed at and, being a liberal-minded fellow quickly accepted the likely nature of the relationship between the Prince and the Uruk but it was obvious that something had gone badly wrong between them.  Ludlow could see that both parties were much too hard-headed to begin trying to resolve their situation.  He hated the thought of interfering, but realized that they needed someone to give them a nudge, or perhaps even jolly good shove, to get them talking again.

But Faramir was steering him by his shoulders, deftly moving him out of his tent.

“I think you must almost be as stubborn as he is!” Ludlow cried, as he was practically thrown out through the door.  “Maybe even more so!  Someone has to make the first move!”

Faramir shook his head.  “I’m sorry,” he said, “and you may be sure that although I wish nothing but the best for Shagrat, that person certainly isn’t going to be me.”

There was nothing else to be done.  Ludlow had to try a different tack.

Partly on account of his association with Faramir, but mostly because nobody took him seriously enough to regard him as any kind of legitimate threat Ludlow at this time had a sort of unofficial dispensation to come and go at will, in and out of the Orcs’ prison compound.

By the time he arrived back with them Shagrat had already recovered enough to be able to stand up, more-or-less.  Away from the others, he was leaning against one of the tree-trunks that had been incorporated into the wall of the barricade, where he was watching the activity in the outer camp with riveted attention.  It was clear that he had been looking out for Faramir, and at that point was watching him leave.

As Ludlow approached Shagrat turned and slumped down, giving him a watery smile.  He still looked terrible.  Since a personal visit from the Prince had not been forthcoming, Ludlow had as a substitute demanded from him - and been given - unrestricted access to the camp’s stores.  Over the last day or so he had been filling his time by making a series of nourishing meals for Shagrat (and by default, for the other Orcs too): light soups, broths and stews, all prepared with the aim of rebuilding the Uruk’s strength.  And either because Shagrat was basically tough as old boots or because Ludlow’s programme had been working until now he’d been making good progress.  Now it seemed the Orc had, for a reason that the Hobbit could easily guess at, suffered a relapse.  A boost to his morale was definitely in order.

“He really likes you,” Ludlow told Shagrat.

“Who’s that then?” the convalescing Orc demanded gruffly.

“Prince Faramir of Ithilien,” the Hobbit replied.  “Really, Shagrat, I realize you and the others like to think of me as being a bit of a dimwit, but I’m not _entirely_ dense.  It’s obvious it was him you were all lovelorn over and trying to forget about before – and anyone could see you’ve been going around practically ‘by Royal Appointment’ this entire time.”

“And how’s that?” Shagrat said.

“The Ithilien Crest is emblazoned on your walking-stick.  Most of your belongings have it on – see?  It’s woven as a repeating pattern into your cloak and everything.”

“Is that what that is,” Shagrat sighed gloomily, picking at one of the textured patches on the wool with his thumbnail.  “Not that it makes much difference now.  Not now I’ve been and gone and blown it.”

Ludlow said he thought that that was taking things a bit too seriously.

“Didn’t even come and see how I was when I was injured though, did he?” Shagrat hissed urgently.  “Just went away and left me!  Course he did!  He’s always been a great one for doing that.”

Azof had moved nearer and was sitting close by, the better to blatantly listen in on their conversation.  He crowed with laughter when he heard this.

“You can’t really be talking about that Head-Tark what was hanging round here before?” he said.  “Dozy-looking tosser, with girly floppy hair and a stupid pasty face?  Description sound familiar, does it?”

“He’s _not_ dozy!  And his hair _isn’t_ – girlish!” Shagrat though about it and reconsidered.   “...maybe a little bit.  It could be.”

“Yeah?  ‘Cos he was only moonin’ about making calf-eyes at your ugly mug the whole time you was out of it.  Eyes swimmin’ wiv’ unshed tears, lower lip all a-quiver……bleedin’ hearts and flowers shit!  Just as well you come round when you did ‘cos we was all gettin’ sick of it -  enough to make anyone vomit, the way that plonker was carrying on!  Wants his head seeing to, if he _is_ really your fancy piece. Who else’d ever rate you as being anything special eh, Shaggers?”

Shagrat gave him a dirty look.

“Ignore him,” the Hobbit advised.

“And another thing,” Shagrat remembered, “if he thinks so much of me, what’s he doing rounding up all this lot and keeping ‘em here like this?  Can’t be all that keen on my sort then, can he?”

“About that Shagrat, I’m quite sure you got hold of entirely the wrong end of the stick.”

“Don’t see how,” Shagrat grumbled.

“His intention wasn’t so much that he was trying to round up all other Orcs but to search far and wide, full of desperate longing, for _you_.  The others – well it’s basically just by-catch.”

“I just bet he was full of something, all right,” Shagrat muttered darkly.

“An’ just ’oo  do think you are calling ‘by-catch’?” Azof blustered, puffing up with indignation.

“Ignore him,” Ludlow repeated.   “We’re talking about you and your – your _Prince_.  And about how everything he’s done, he’s done on account of how he feels about _you_.  It’s as I said: he really likes you.”

“Maybe he did for a bit, at that,” Shagrat said doubtfully, “but you don’t know him the way I do.  Blows hot and cold the whole time.  This’ll be one of the times he’ll have changed his mind.  You can count on it.”

“Oh!” Ludlow yelped, jumping to his feet in agitation. “For goodness sakes!  The two of you need to have your heads banged together, really you do! Maybe that would knock some sense into the pair of you!”

 

TBC


	19. On the road again

 

Ludlow rested his head on the side of the carriage and gazed out through the window, watching the darkening countryside as it lurched by. 

He breathed a deep sigh of relief to think that they were finally on their way.  Hobbits weren’t duplicitous creatures by nature and over the last day or so their current expedition had required such quantities of forethought and planning from him that he was nearly wilting from the nervous energies he’d found it necessary to expend.   Before they made their departure there had been so awfully much to consider –  and he crossed his fingers in his pocket, hoping that he hadn’t forgotten anything.  He hoped sincerely that his hastily flung-together plan would work.

He hadn’t lied, exactly, about where it was that he and his Uruk friend were going.  If the Lady Eowyn and her kinsmen believed that the group of Orcs they’d collected were bound for the remote mountain fastness he had told them of – well, in principle most of this was true.  It was just that not every one of them was on their way there.  Not _quite_ yet.

Assumptions had been made; the primary assumption being that they would all be travelling together - but as nobody had thought to confirm the finer details with him in person, it was a notion that Ludlow had simply…neglected to contradict.  They all agreed that given how far the season had already progressed, the onset of bad weather could call a halt to the Hobbit’s travel plans any day and so it was imperative that he and his Orcs should set off at once.  There had however been a great deal talk and discussion about sending an escort of Rohirrim guards with Ludlow to supervise the Orcish party.  It had taken the Hobbit a great deal of manoeuvring, but – by the skin of his teeth - he had eventually managed to persuade them out of that.

At first Hrodgar and Eowyn had flat-out insisted on an armed escort.  Ludlow had argued in the opposite direction, assuring them that he himself would be accompanying the Orcs for most of the way.

Even if the Hobbit was so reckless as to be willing to risk his own skin, the two Rohirrim leaders said, travelling Orcs posed a significant and unacceptable danger to the country-folk of the region. 

Ludlow countered by giving an account of the areas through which they would be travelling, telling of their remote nature, stressing that they were very sparsely populated -

Still they’d refused to meet him half way.  

 The Hobbit added then - almost as an afterthought - that the winter weather in the mountains was already worsening in a way that would make the – originally treacherous - terrain soon become entirely unsuitable for horses.  

Eowyn and Hrodgar were still far from being convinced that they should allow Ludlow and the Orcs strike out alone.  Also present at the meeting however was the lead cavalryman of the Rohirrim regiment - and on hearing that he quickly began to sit up and take notice. 

Ludlow went on to put some effort into describing in full and harrowing detail how unsuitable for horses their environment really would be, speaking at length of the fearsome cliff-edged pathways they would be traversing and the height of the precipices; the narrowness of the slippery mountain passes they would find themselves having to cross - and so on.

The head of cavalry stated his opinion that his men would be most reluctant to be parted from their animals, especially when in unfamiliar territory at this difficult time of year.  He went on to argue that it wouldn’t be fair on the horses, if they were to be taken into such a difficult, hostile environment, and then did everything but categorically refuse to go.  

With the head of the Rohirrim horsemen now fully converted to Ludlow’s side, a compromise was soon reached.

An armed contingent would accompany Ludlow and his foul friends to the foot of the mountains, proceeding as far as the landscape would allow and after that the Orcish company would carry on up to the Hobbit’s mountain landholding alone.

And now, having reached the foothills of the mountains and parted company with their escort the Orcish company _was_ carrying on as agreed; with the minor exception of Shagrat, and Luldow - and one or two of the others.   Once the Rohirrim had ridden out of sight, they’d smartly turned and doubled back, for Ludlow had a slightly different destination for his friend in mind. 

**

Maz had been with Azof on his original reconnaissance to the giant’s stronghold and assured Ludlow he could lead the way.  The other Orcs had sworn to be on their best behaviour and that they would follow him – giving their collective word in fact (although even the naïve Hobbit by was this stage beginning to wonder what, exactly, that was worth).

Finding a means of transport to the place he and Shagrat were really going had initially been an issue as the Uruk, while up and on his feet again was in no fit state to be making any kind of long-distance or arduous trip.  Bearing this in mind Ludlow had been examining his little donkey-cart with a critical eye – which extended as well to the geriatric donkey itself.  The elderly beast had spent the past few days grazing happily out at pasture, having made successful overtures towards the various Rohirrim horses.

After carrying out a quick inventory of the donkey and its cart, the Hobbit had been sitting on a rock, gazing down the valley and dolefully thinking that neither one was even half-way adequate for his intended purpose - when of a sudden a new and vibrantly yellow something, an object that was glaringly out-of-place in the dreary wintry landscape caught his eye.  It was a large, gaudily-coloured vehicle that had apparently been abandoned by the entrance to a field some distance away.  A stray ray of afternoon sunlight made it glitter, bewitchingly.

This was a splendid stroke of luck!  Hurrying over to the garishly gilded thing, Ludlow saw that the previous night’s storm had blown loose the piece of canvas that had been covering it.  The four-wheeled covered carriage now revealed was painted gold and was completely encrusted on every exterior surface with decoratively carved wood and scrolls of stucco-work.  Ludlow wondered for a minute what on earth it could be doing here, for it was a vehicle wholly unsuited for travel on any but the smoothest, straightest roads; obviously not designed to withstand even slightly inclement weather.  Noticing a familiar mark painted on the doors he recognized the Prince of Ithilien’s crest and realized it must belong to him.  The carriage was, of course, Faramir’s state coach.  The Prince’s intention had been to make use of it during his formal visits but owing to the haste of his departure  - which had taken place a day ahead of schedule - it had been conveniently forgotten about and left behind.  Ludlow clambered up onto the roof with the canvas, struggling to cover the conspicuous object and camouflage it once again.  He thought the coach could well be the answer to one of his transportational difficulties, at least.  

Horsepower could have been an issue, but Azof and Rukush laughed when he quietly asked if they thought the two of them would in principle be capable of moving such a vehicle any distance - with the Hobbit and Shagrat riding inside.

“Piece of piss,” scoffed Azof.   “That decrepit old fart so far-gone he wants carrying from place-to-place now, does he?”

**

It was stealing, really, but Ludlow did his best to put that out of mind.  After the escort of Rohirrim had deposited the Orcish party at the foot of the mountains as agreed, he and Shagrat and the two others had split from Maz’s main party and doubled back on themselves downhill.  Hiding outside the Rohirrim camp, they’d waited till nightfall before swiftly appropriating Faramir’s vehicle.

Azof complained bitterly as he took hold of the traces, and with only him and Rukush to pull them along it was far from being a smooth ride, but once they started the carriage rolling momentum kept it moving without too strenuous of an effort on the part of the two Orcs, who were even able to coast along down some of the easier sections of road.  They were making fair progress, Ludlow had a general idea of where they were going –  down into the lowland plain of Ithilien, and at last he was even beginning to feel slightly optimistic.

If truth be told, the greatest difficulty the Hobbit encountered during any of his forward planning had lain in trying to persuade Shagrat.

**

“Now look here Shagrat,” he’d told the Orc that morning, “it’s all been decided. Tonight you’re going to that – that bloody ball.”

“What, so I can parade myself in front of all his poncy friends bold as brass?  So he can tell everyone what he thinks of me again?  Not likely!”

Ludlow sniffed disapprovingly.  “Honestly, from what I’ve seen of the way the two of you go on, it seems as if each of you spends about half his time running away from the other one.  If you must insist on taking turns – well!  This is your chance to chase after him for a bit then, isn’t it?”

“Done more than my share of that already,” Shagrat grumbled.

“It doesn’t look to me as if he intends on coming back,” Ludlow replied tartly, “which means it’s up to you to get a move on and go after him then, isn’t it?  Look Shagrat, everyone knows where he’s gone.  It’s common knowledge.  Apparently it’s going to be an ever-so-fancy do.  It’s not even all that far off.”

“Doesn’t matter.  I’m still not going.”

Ludlow gritted his teeth and muttered some very un-Hobbit-like oaths concerning the cursed stubbornness of certain Orcs at this point.  Still he had no intention of letting this subject – painful and vexed as it was - drop.

“Of course, we’ll have to get you something better to wear,” he fussed, looking at Shagrat’s dried-gore-encrusted clothing with a doubtful eye.  It was the same outfit - the only one the Orc possessed – into and onto which Shagrat had recently been bleeding so very copiously.  “Actually, I’m not bad with a needle and thread,” Ludlow went on, "and if I’d had time, maybe I could’ve sewn – but there it is.  I suppose it’ll just have to be ‘come as you are.’  Unless -” suddenly struck by new idea he scampered off on some errand or other.

In due course he returned, looking flustered and dragging an assortment of leather garments, chain-mail and sundry other bits and pieces.  Dusting his hands off he deposited the whole lot in front of Shagrat, suggesting that the old Orc try some of them on for size.

“Now what’s all this I wonder,” Shagrat stated dryly, hooking a claw through the mesh of a battered mail shirt and examining it intently. “Resorted to robbing graves now, have we?  They say it’s good to try new things but you better watch yourself.  I think you must be going native - comes of hanging round with Orcs too long.”

“I’m not planning to make a habit of this!” Ludlow cried indignantly.  “It’s just you’ve got next to nothing to wear and – well – all this is is a few a of poor Dokuz’s unclaimed personal effects –“

“Unclaimed?”  Shagrat repeated, sitting up and showing a bit of interest.  “So how come nobody else’s up and had ‘em off him already?  They never usually backwards about coming forwards, this lot.”

“Someone put – poor Dokuz’s body - on the other side of the gate where the other Orcs couldn’t get to him.”

“So it was you took this stuff off him?” Shagrat exclaimed, staring at Ludlow with something like grudging respect.  “Just left the poor bastard lying naked for the crows and jackals did you?”

“And what, exactly, are you trying to suggest?”

Shagrat shook his head.  “Never would’ve thought you had it in you, pulling a stunt like that.  Never in a million years.”

“For your information,” Ludlow sniffed, “I saw to it he had a very _nice_ burial thank you, and he was not naked but very tastefully and decently wrapped in a proper _shroud_ beforehand.  It was a very sombre occasion.”

“I take it no-one got it into their head they wanted to have a quick snack on the body, then?  If you're an Orc, it's practically tradition.”

Ludlow shuddered, and with an effort, managed to ignore that.  “Everybody said a few heartfelt words – although admittedly in Azof’s case it was more of a – a-”

“Dirty limerick?   Maybe on the subject of how you’d nicked all old Dokuz’s kit?”  

“Well?  It’s not going to be much use to the poor fellow _now_ , is it?” Ludlow protested.  “Really, Shagat, I wouldn’t have thought that you, of all people, would have had such scruples about this sort of thing.”

“Nah. I don’t,” Shagrat replied.  “Like I said you could’ve left him for the crows for all the difference it makes to me.   It’s just a lot of what’s here was mine to begin with.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah.  Dokus robbed it off me back in the day - and now I’m having it back off of him.  You never hear about recycling?  That's another fine old Orcish tradition.”  He cocked an eyebrow at the Hobbit and looked almost amused for the first time in days.  “Where d’you think we get this gear from in the first place?”

Ludlow quailed a bit, thinking of the grisly resources the Black Army must have used to provision itself over many centuries of warfare.

“Maybe I’ll give this a quick shine and brush-up,” he said, making a feeble attempt to put a bright and cheerful tone into his voice.  “Won’t that be nice!”  The Hobbit picked up the torn chain-mail jerkin, and then a small piece of plate armour that looked like it was decades-deep in dirt and rust. “Now then Shagrat,” he said a moment later, “how d’you think I should go about trying to clean this?”

Looking blank, the Uruk shrugged.

Maz came creeping up.  “Now I dunno nuffink about that,” he said, pointing at the armour plate, “but for this sort a’ stuff?” – he indicated the mail shirt – “alls you need is a leather sack, a bucket of sand – and a couple angry cats.”

*****

Ludlow shook his head, thinking back about it.  He glanced across at Shagrat, who was sitting silent, tense and angry over on the opposite couch.  

Brooding again most probably, the Hobbit thought.  At least - if nothing else - he knew he had done his best to bring the Prince and Uruk together and could now only hope that they would find a way to settle their differences.  He bundled his little hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket and settled into a corner of his seat.  It would be a while yet before they got there and he wanted to see if he could catch forty winks.

**

It was late in the evening when they arrived at their destination. Two circuits of the surrounding area, through damp and muddy countryside to find the place hadn’t improved any of the Orcs’ temper, but the venue was set so far back from the roadside and at the end of such a long and winding approach that they’d initially overlooked it in the dark.

They came at last to a low and well-proportioned building, set in a hollow in rolling acres of sparsely wooded parkland.  Lights blazed in every window and the wide, sweeping frontage was packed with close-parked horse-drawn carriages of every shape and description, from sprightly two-wheeled gigs and traps to fashionable covered cabs and coupes.

“Never going to get parked anywhere near it now, are we?”  

Azof had begun his pre-emptive grumbling when they were still some way away.  “Look at all this lot," he continued.  "We go any nearer and every single one of them nags is going to start kickin’ off like anything.”

“Well – just try and take us round the side and keep your distance or something!” Ludlow snapped in exasperation.  “Shagrat!  Tell him!   _Honestly_.  Do I always have to be the one who decides about every single thing?”

At length the Hobbit and his bickering company of Orcs found a place to disembark.  They left the carriage on a gravel footpath away from the other coaches, a short distance from the building.  Tucked away in the dark and party hidden by the low-hanging branches of some evergreen trees, it was close to looking inconspicuous.

“I think I said before,” Shagrat muttered with uncharacteristic nervousness as he looked towards the lighted house, “I think I said a couple of times, actually, that this might have been a mistake.”  His heart was thumping hard in his chest and he was disgusted to note that he was experiencing a terrible, sickly kind of hopefulness at the mere thought of seeing Faramir again.  Fear and anger in anticipation of trouble were familiar enough emotions to him by this point, but the awful sense of hopefulness was not.   He felt mostly inclined either to start a random fight with somebody – that, or simply turn and run back the way he’d come.  Overall he was feeling  – sorely conflicted .

The surroundings admittedly, were rather grand, but the big hall looked to Ludlow as if whoever had had it built had been trying too hard, with the result that everything about it seemed a little....overdone.   The highly-varnished pair of front doors for example were about as twice as tall as any doors of serviceable height needed to be and it was all exaggerated like that – from the height of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the breadth of the building’s façade to the background susurration of conversation issuing from within.  Muted  by distance as it was from outside, indoors it must have been deafeningly loud.

“Lover boy’s in there, is he?” Azof said, crowing out a nasty laugh. “Face it, Shaggers, them’s proper fancy folk he’ll be hob-nobbing with.  And here’s you looking like something the cat’s drug in!  Riff-raff, what hasn’t got an ‘ope!”

The older Uruk glared at him but didn’t reply.

“Ignore him,” Ludlow advised.  “I think you look very nice!”

“So we plannin’ on going in or what?”  Rukush said, stretching and scratching himself.

Shagrat sighed and squared his shoulders. “Come all this way now, haven’t we?” he said, and made to go inside.

The Orc didn’t get far.  Standing in the atrium, just inside the door was a stern old man formally dressed and wearing an antique-looking frock-coat.  There were a couple of other similarly-turned out but rather more muscular-looking younger fellows flanking him on either side.  Apparently they’d all been waiting there the whole evening with the sole purpose of intercepting undesirables and would-be gatecrashers just like Shagrat.

“May I see your invitation,” the old attendant said.  

The mismatched group of Orcs + Hobbit just looked at one another in consternation. 

“This function is by invitation only, you realize.”

Ludlow hurried up to him.   

“My colleagues and I are a –“ he swallowed nervously and darted a backward glance at Shagrat, who was slouching just inside the doorway.  Every line of his posture screamed of a severe lack of confidence: lurking there with his teeth bared and his shoulders hunched defensively, he looked like nothing so much as the living embodiment of extreme shadiness.  Faced with material of such unprepossessing quality, even the loyal Hobbit’s resolve began to falter.

“Shagrat!” he hissed over his shoulder.  “Pull yourself together this instant!  And for goodnessakes! Try to stand up straight!”

“As I was saying we represent an, ah, special delegation,” Ludlow continued.  “From one of – one of Gondor’s sister-states.  Our invitation’s got misplaced in the post, most probably.  On account of our sister-state being – um.  A brand new one.”

“Are you trying to tell me that this band of - “ the man shot a sceptical look at the glowering lead Orc, as words to express his indignance failed him - “that that _person_ is a representative from a foreign country?”

“Yes!” Ludlow cried enthusiastically.  On hearing this the two younger attendants began sniggering and even one of the Orcs accompanying Shagrat’s party audibly jeered:

“Is he bollocks!”

“And which country would this be.”

Ludlow gave the Orcs a look of mute appeal but no assistance was forthcoming.  “It’s the country, um, the land, of, er –“

“The land of ‘Ur’?” the attendant repeated.  “Ridiculous sort of name to be giving a place.  None of us here have ever heard of it.”

“It’s on the map,” Ludlow persevered, and showed him. “Well.  It is on _a_ map.”   He diligently unrolled the paper they’d been given ages ago, after they’d talked to the clerks back in the first mountain town.

For some reason seeing the position of the Uruk’s (alleged) home turf set down in print did seem to convince the man somewhat more than any of the Hobbit’s earlier arguments.  Leaning down to Ludlow’s level he proceeded to pore over the fragment of parchment with some concentration.  He seemed to be particularly impressed by the many wax seals and prettily-coloured ribbons that were dangling off the lower edge of it.

“We’re going to be here all frigging night at this rate,” Shagrat snarled after a minute or two of this, having utterly lost patience with the diplomatic process.  “Come _on_.”  He picked Ludlow up off his feet, tucked him under his arm and shouldered his way past the old man.  Baring his teeth he feinted at the other two attendant flunkies, hand on his sword.  “Let me in or else.  You two!  Azof.  Rukush.  You stay out here and watch my bleedin’ back.”

 


	20. Murderer on the dance floor

 

The clock was striking twelve when Faramir, from his position at the far end of the ballroom, became aware of a certain fracas ongoing just outside the entrance to the chamber.

Faramir had spent his evening engaged in social chit-chat with the various provincial big-wigs and their consorts who customarily attended this type of gathering, all of whom had of course been so eager, delighted and completely overawed to be in the presence of a bona fide Prince that barely a one among them had had recourse to say a single sensible thing to him all night.  He had, accordingly, found the engagement to be a long and rather wearying one overall - but he had also attracted the attention of a certain glossy-haired fellow, a man Farmair knew well from prior reputation, if not immediately by sight.

The charm and grace of this person had made him quite the fixture in higher levels of Gondorian society.  In certain circles he was also renowned for his sexual adventuring and appetites - for the fellow was in effect the male equivalent of a professional courtesan, and since the war had quickly become a favourite in the new King’s court.  And tonight this well-favoured fellow had his cap set at the Prince of Ithilien.  Fixing his gaze on Faramir through the intervening throng, he had made his way steadily towards him, exchanging flattering comments and easy pleasantries with the other guests as he went, with all the easy self-assurance and confidence in his own position that the Prince knew he himself would always lack.

The handsome stranger had taken charge of their interaction from its beginning, presuming on a number of shared acquaintances as an excuse for introducing himself.  Wherever in the great hall that Faramir went that night, he invariably found the man lingering somewhere in the region of his right elbow, at a sometimes greater – or, as the evening wore on more frequently something of a lesser distance.  Seldom speaking, but often catching the Prince’s eye with an easy smile and arch look, he had been quick to assume a definitely proprietorial air.  Under different circumstances Faramir might have rebelled in the face of such presumptuousness, but the man was well-presented and good-looking: his robe of white samite shot with silver, if neither mystic nor particularly wonderful was at least eminently suited to his height and slender figure, and, although the man’s lengthy auburn tresses were of a shade that brought most forcefully to mind nothing more than the usefulness of certain herbal hair-dyes, they flowed attractively and bore a light, appealing fragrance.  Moreover he was turning out to be both a personable and charismatic companion, an amusing enough character with whom the Prince could while away a little of his time.

When the clock struck the hour the gay social evening was beginning to wind down.  Faramir and his new acquaintance were standing together near the back of the function room, halfway up a wide row of steps that led to a raised area abutting the far wall. A selection of cold buffet dishes had been set out on this platform earlier in the evening but the tables had since been removed, and the elevated area now provided a secluded area in which Faramir and the well-favoured man could talk.  From this vantage point, Faramir was one of the first in the room to register Shagrat’s arrival.  The Uruk, having used the top of his sword to jemmy the double-doors open, shouldered his way inside.

The Prince blanched to see him.  There was always - almost by definition - something of the night about Shagrat, but even allowing for that, the contrast between the Orc and his - in this case opulent - surroundings had never been more marked.  Given the uncertain state of Shagrat’s health, together with the fact that he was making such heavy use of a walking stick, it shouldn’t have been possible for him to stride forwards quite so impressively, but somehow the long-legged Uruk managed to do it all the same.  He moved with such speed and certainty that his blood-stained green wool cloak, which was fastened at the shoulders, billowed elegantly behind him as he swept down the central aisle across the room towards Faramir.  Under the cloak he was wearing a clean shirt of mail, leather breeches, gauntlets and a short-skirted tunic, and he had also acquired a fresh sword-belt and set of iron shin-guards and wrist-plates.  The items were scuffed and dented, obviously second-hand and all in all no more than typical Orcish attire of course; but everything had recently been cleaned and to Faramir’s eyes he looked quite well in it - almost dashing, in fact.

A frosty swirl of cold winter air draughting in from the great outdoors accompanied him as he drew nearer, making Shagrat’s long - if admittedly rather scraggy - hair swirl out dramatically as he approached.  At first sight of him Faramir thought of nothing except for how much he’d missed him, and he noted - as he sometimes had before - that occasionally, at times like this, Shagrat was not so very far off from being completely and utterly magnificent.  

Close on the heels of that however came the poisonous realisation that there could be no reason for Orc to have come here other than for revenge; with the public humiliation of Faramir in mind, most likely.

As the Uruk drew nearer his pace slowed, and then got slower.  At last he came to a halt in front of the small crowd of guests who were still lingering in the Prince's general vicinity.  The people nearest Shagrat smartly got out of the way, leaving his path to Faramir wide open.

“Well, Shagrat?” Faramir asked tiredly.

The Orc’s gaze darted back and forth and he scanned the other guests, eyeing at them cautiously.  “Can I – I couldn’t have another word with you, could I?” he said gruffly.  He gestured towards the back of the room.  “Maybe over there, for a bit?”

“Anything further you have to say to me,” Faramir told him, “would be better off discussed in public, wouldn’t you agree?  Out in the open and for everyone to see, since I certainly wouldn’t want you to think of me dealing with you dishonestly, or have reason to claim that I was treating you in any kind of covert or underhand manner.”

“Oh!” the Uruk exclaimed, dismayed.

“’Oh!’ you say, indeed.”

Shagrat was clearly rattled and stood for a moment, flummoxed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

“I - I see your wife’s chucked you again,” he began again, clearing his throat.  “I thought she was a bit – much, if you ask me.  Seemed like someone who takes herself awfully seriously.  If you don’t mind my saying – I expect it’s for the best.  I should think you’re probably well rid.”

Faramir was determined to brazen out this new scandal out shamelessly.  “In that case I can only assume you’ve come here to gloat,” he replied, “but if you have there’s absolutely no need.  It was a mutual separation – our second, as you know, but this time all quite amicable.”  He was acutely embarrassed to be speaking about this with the Uruk and now wished only to be rid of him.  “Is that it?  Wife’s gone; you’ve gone and here I am again, footloose and fancy-free.  Now!  Have we covered everything thoroughly and to your complete satisfaction?  No other burning issues you feel you’d like to get off your chest?”

“Eh?”

“What I mean to say Shagrat, is - _will that be all_?”

The Orc looked nonplussed.  “Well – no.  It’s – also about Azof and those other lads, isn’t it?  About how it looked when you went and rounded all that lot up the way you did.  I said some stuff to you I'd no call to because - you know, I think I might’ve gotten the wrong end of the stick.”

“Finally realized that, have you?”  Faramir asked stiffly.  “I’m very glad to hear it.”

Shagrat stepped in closer and spoke to Faramir in a low voice, shaking with emotion.  “I thought you’d gone off on one again, didn’t I?  Thought you must be having second thoughts, getting another bee in your bonnet about your ‘honour’ - the way you did before.  And – you know – then had to go and prove it by being the big hero, showing everyone by getting rid of Orcs.  I mean it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?  And all along, you were – well, way I heard, you were only really looking for me.  Tirelessly searching, and that.  Why would I expect you’d up and do that on my account?  I’m just saying it was an easy mistake to make.”

“I can barely remember what I was about at that time, of course,” Faramir replied.  “Head filled with romantic twaddle for the most part I expect.  Eyes blinded by – well.  I wasn’t thinking clearly, that much is certain.  As any normal person, or even anybody with even the barest ounce of common sense would no doubt by now have surmised.”

The Orc, who wasn’t stupid, just blinked at him.

“It was under duress,” Faramir went on.  “Look at my actions - my behaviour – my expectations, throughout that entire unhappy episode.  My perceptions were all off – to the extent that I scarcely knew what I was doing!  Wits addled by long-term drug use, you see.”

Shagrat’s face fell.  “Didn’t you mean any of it, then?”

At that moment Faramir wanted nothing else than for the Uruk to go away and was about to make a withering retort; something to immediately end their dialogue that would with any luck also send him packing for good.  Then, through a break in the crowd he caught a sudden glimpse of Shagrat’s Hobbit companion. 

Ludlow was glaring fiercely across the room, quite literally staring daggers at him.  The gap in the crowd closed quickly, but Faramir was still left with nothing more than the afterimage of Shagrat’s unlikely champion - with his eyes narrowed, jutting out his pudgy double chin; utterly failing to make his jolly little face look menacing.  Against expectations however, he’d succeeded in making his point effectively. ‘Someone has to make the first move’ the Hobbit had said, and Shagrat had certainly done more than that already.

Meanwhile Faramir’s new acquaintance had taken the Prince’s silence as an indication that he should leap head-first into their conversation.  Shagrat’s presence was a grave annoyance to the man for various reasons, foremost of which was the fact that this apparent competitor for Faramir’s attention was – incredibly - an Orc.

“Can you be serious?” he scoffed, addressing Shagrat. “To think of his highness searching high, searching low - and for someone like _you_?   Are you stupid?  Have you gone _blind_?  Just look at you!” and he made a hateful hawking noise at the back of his throat.  “Yrch!“

There was indeed something slightly different about him Faramir realised, as he regarded the Uruk more closely.  “My goodness Shagrat!” he exclaimed. “Has someone been trying to braid your hair?”

At that the Orc snatched convulsively at himself until his fingers snagged and caught in the stringy little plait Faramir had noticed, and with a violent movement of his hand he tore most of it out by the roots. “That bloody Hobbit,” he muttered, his jaw clenched, “just wouldn’t stop _messing_ with it.  Said he was going to try and make it a bit more presentable - tidy it up, maybe.  But the teeth on his comb broke -”

“And the mirror, jug and washstand too, I’ll warrant,” Faramir’s companion put in.  “It’s no matter.  Anyone can see you’re far beyond reach of being ‘tidied up’ by ordinary grooming conventions. There’s little, if anything, anyone could do to make a creature like you look presentable!  Short of putting a bag over your head to cover it, that is.”  

Laying a proprietorial hand on the Prince’s elbow he began to steer him gently but insistently away.

There was a time when the last thing an issuer of a statement like that would have felt was the steel of Shagrat’s sword against his neck, and at once the Uruk, squaring up aggressively took a single heated step towards him, fingers flexing as if he intended to snap the slender man like a twig.  But then he paused and seemed to be staring at his feet for a long moment - after which unbelievably, Shagrat backed down.

He was looking at the deep, rich carpet he was standing on, and noting the thick velvet and brocade drapes and hangings that decorated the place.  Orcs in general were much-maligned creatures; Shagrat - through past experience - even more so than most and he had encountered hostile attitudes so often that any disparagement was usually like water off a duck’s back to him.  Now, possibly for the first time the Uruk was beginning to register the full burden of public disapproval being directed at him, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of it.

The surge of adrenalin that had borne Shagrat from carriage to ballroom was fading and in its wake came a hollow feeling - a debilitating loss of self-confidence, for in this oppressive, alien setting he was utterly out of his depth; had never felt so glaringly out-of-place.  Trying to avoid catching sight of his own reflection in the glittering, candle-lit mirrors that lined the walls of the great room, Shagrat turned abruptly aside.  All those bright lights were making him look even more haggard and ghastly than usual.

“That’s right,” Faramir’s companion said, emboldened by the Orc's apparent retreat.  “It’s well past time for you to return to whichever gutter you’ve dragged yourself from.  Your foul presence is a grievous affront to every one of us.  Your kind have no place here.”

“Actually,” Faramir cut in, “actually I think you’ll find that’s not quite the case.”  He pulled away from his companion perhaps a little more sharply than he’d intended, because he had never thought he’d see the Uruk turning away from a fight.  This ran so contrary to everything Faramir thought he knew of Shagrat’s nature that the idea was thoroughly alarming to him - as was the notion that by now the Orc had been knocked down so often there was a good chance that sometime soon he might not bother even trying to pick himself up again.

“That is not the case,” he repeated, “because, wherever he’s planning to take his foul presence off to,” and now he was addressing the assemblage at large - because curiosity having gotten the better of their manners, many of the people within earshot were standing staring open-mouthed at him - “I’m sure that I, for one, intend to be accompanying him to that place.  I’m not affronted by Shagrat at all, you see.  And I think we’ll be going – wherever we’re going - now, in point of fact.”

“Here,” the Prince continued, his voice sounding overly loud in the dead silence that had fallen all around them.  Stepping forward he took the Uruk’s hand.  “Come on, Shagrat.  Let’s go outside.  You were quite right, as usual.  We can’t possibly talk like this.”

“You’re leaving?  In public?  With me?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Faramir replied.  “It would appear everybody else did.”  Closing his ears to the wave of astonished exclamation that followed them he pulled the stumbling Orc through the crowded ballroom after him.  “Leaving together in public,” he said, only a little bit hysterically, “yes, it certainly seems that’s what’s happening, doesn’t it?”

He dragged Shagrat to one side of the chamber, but the effect of their surprise departure was somewhat spoiled by the fact that the tall windowed doors, through which the Prince had planned to exit, were bolted shut.

Faramir, wrestling with quite an acreage of heavy curtain that was in the way rattled the locks in exasperation for a moment, before recalling that he had something of an expert in antisocial behaviour and all round thuggery standing right there by his side.

“Go ahead,” he told Shagrat, “I’ll have to bow to your superior experience in this sort of thing.”

The Uruk grinned back at him.  Using one iron-reinforced fist he punched the window-locks through, then with a single wrenching movement of his arm twisted the doors wide open.  

Shagrat’s one remaining eye was shining as with an odd, almost courtly little movement he stood back, gesturing to Faramir that he should lead the way.  He followed him out and they went on together, going carefully because of all the broken glass.

Remembering himself, Faramir hurried back to close the windowed doors behind them - innate politeness getting the better of him, even though it was a largely futile exercise because, following Shagrat’s efforts, much of the glass and woodwork were irreparably shattered, and one of the long doors was in fact hanging loose from its hinge.

“I must extend my sincerest thanks for your hospitality!” the Prince called, through the gently swinging gap.  “Really, it’s been a most wonderfully enjoyable evening!   Terribly good fun!  And, er, – of course I will be making good all of the superficial – and structural – damage that very unfortunately seems to have just taken place.  You have my personal guarantee of that.”

And then he hurried outside, back to his waiting Orc.

 

 


	21. Lover came back

 

A layer of high misty clouds had skimmed over the face of the moon and after the fug in the close-packed ballroom it was refreshingly cold outside.  Immediately around the building the grounds were a mosaic of smooth landscaped gardens interspersed with dense banks of shrubbery.  With their footsteps crunching over neat raked gravel, Faramir and Shagrat walked side-by-side through the gardens in a companionable enough silence.

There were however matters outstanding between them still to be discussed and eventually Faramir brought them to a stop.  Discreetly he tried to step away whereupon Shagrat, who had been holding his hand, just clutched at it more tightly.

After a moment he let go and stepped back, keeping close watch on Faramir all the while.

“Spit it out, then,” he said quietly.  “I’m ready to hear your piece.”  The Orc looked as if he was braced for and awaiting bad news.

“Shagrat, you must know that I searched high and low for you,” Faramir began, earnestly.  “Such was my sole aim – my only intention!”  As he spoke he was astonished to see Shagrat’s pointed ears actually begin to prick themselves up till their tips held their usual alert, if not-quite-sprightly pose. Apparently this was not at all what he’d been expecting from him.

“I tried to set out to find you as soon as I discovered you’d gone,” the Prince ploughed on, “but I was distraught that night you left Ithilien – practically crazed with grief.  To the extent that my wife and her advisor assumed I really was beginning to lose my mind - or so they claim.  Whatever the case, in consequence they took it upon themselves to dose me with that preparation you uncovered – insisting they believed themselves to be acting ‘in my own best interests,’ as I’ve been reminded repeatedly.”

“Really?” Shagrat said, sounding unconvinced.  “Crazed with grief?  Doesn’t sound like you to me.  You really believe them when they say that?”

“It does seem - rather too convenient, but I suppose it might make a sort of sense.”

“Setting you up as a basket case?”  Shagrat exclaimed.  “Nah.  You’re not the sort.”

Faramir acknowledged that it was all quite in keeping with his family history.  “My father, my brother, even to some extent my mother, all in their own way, to a greater or lesser extent at some point – found themselves similarly afflicted.”

Some of this was news to Shagrat.  He’d known about the dad; Famramir’s brother too.  That was all common knowledge, wasn’t it?  “Your Mum as well?” he said, and whistled through his teeth.

“It is said of my mother that she died heartsick with longing for the home of her girlhood, which was in the seaward town of Dol Amroth.”

“Died of being _homesick_?” Shagrat exclaimed.  “I don’t believe it.  Pull the other one.”

“I agree that it sounds far-fetched,” Faramir replied.  “But I honestly couldn’t tell you.  Whatever did happen took place when I was really very young.”

The Uruk considered this for a moment.  “I don’t suppose the view from the White City was much help,” he commented, “since they used to say that on a clear day you could see all the way to Mordor from there.”

Faramir thought about standing on the city battlements, looking out towards the dark banks of fog and the great pall of bitter smoke that had permanently enshrouded the borders of the Land of Shadow.  “It’s not as if in those days it was often very clear, Shagrat,” he said mildly.

The Uruk rolled his eye. “Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t still know it was there though, would you?  Be a nasty shock for anyone.  Step through the door, ‘welcome to your new home!’ - then having all _that_ sprung on you.  Foul armies of Mordor camped out right on your doorstep.  Nah.  It’s not the same as it is for you and me – folk like us who were born and bred to it.”

“Are you saying that’s something that we have in common?” Faramir said.

“Didn’t you live your whole life cheek-by-jowl with Mordor?” Shagrat replied bitterly.  His mouth twisted, and his nostrils flared with disgust.  “Brought up in the _shadow_ of the Land of Shadow?  Bet you learn pretty quick to sleep with one eye open, don’t you, knowing us lot’s lurking out there?  ‘Fraid of the dark?  You ruddy well _should_ be.  And, as for me, I was - mired in the thick of it.”

Faramir considered his next words before he said them.  “I’ve heard it said that Orcs,” he began, “are inured to the worst imaginable excesses of squalor and debasement.  That your kind cannot be affected as others would be in like surroundings – that they revel in their degraded condition, in fact.  That – it’s not exactly true, is it?”

Shagrat gave him a long, measured look. “You know, Goldilocks, something else they say is that we started off just like everybody else.  Maybe even a little - _higher_ – than most if you was to go reaching far enough back, I don’t know.  I’ve heard that’s what some people reckon but I don’t _know,_ so there's no use in harping on it, fretting over that sort of thing.  But just say it’s true?  Now look how we’ve ended up.  And if that doesn’t show you how people can be broken-in to – ground down into - justabout anything, well.  What's the point of even wondering about it anyway?”

Faramir laid his hand on his companion’s arm.  “It’s not so surprising, is it?  When it comes to Orcs, people are liable to exaggerate.  Isn’t that what you always said?”

“What a load of old rubbish, though,” Shagrat sighed, shaking his head.  “You really think anyone in their right mind would go on that way – biting and fighting in the filth, forever squabbling and scrabbling after scraps - if they’d any proper say?”

“Isn’t it a matter of choice?  Don’t Orcs choose to live the lives they do?”

“Choice!  Pull the other one!”  Shagrat said, staring at him, incredulous.  “Say you’ve got like – a bullock, right?  One of those big cows they have to pull the carts and stuff on farms.”

“Draught animals,” Faramir said.  “Yes.”

 “So there’s this bullock, right, with its yoke on and those heavy reins and things –“

“Traces?”

“Yeah.  So he’s got - all that stuff - on and he’s hooked up to the plough.  Maybe one of them wotsits covering his eyes, means he can only ever look straight ahead.  Sorry bugger's in a right old state. But the funny thing is this bullock doesn’t even mind!  Seeing how he knows, and everyone knows, that’s what you do with bullocks – with _draught animals_ \- isn’t it?  It's the only reason him and his mates were brought onto this earth in the first place, and it's been going on so long they're barely able even to think of anything else.  Then, on top it, as if that isn’t enough he’s got some...some fucking _farmer_ forever up his arse, whip in hand to make sure the poor bastard pulls his weight and doesn’t ever put a foot wrong – and you tell me Goldilocks, you reckon our Mr Draught Animal’s got a lot of say in choosing what he does and doesn’t want to do?  Reckon he chooses to live like that, does he?”     

Faramir sat and considered that.  “But isn’t the farmer,” he said carefully, “as you put it, gone, now?”

“Maybe,” Shagrat nodded.  “Yeah.  And maybe the traces are cut and the blinkers are off.  But they’ve not been gone for long and maybe we keep living like this because it’s the only way we know how to.”

They stood together in the dark, pondering uncomfortable thoughts.

“Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” Shagrat suddenly said.  “We didn’t come out here so we could think about all that.”

He moved much closer till he was leaning against Faramir.  Resting his chin on his shoulder Shagrat began huffing hot gusts of damp breath into his ear.  It was, thought Faramir, feeling overwhelmed generally, a bit like being accosted by a friendly pet horse.

The Uruk’s arms went up round Faramir’s waist, in the most familiar of moves.  “So, your Highness,” he growled.  “Where d’you reckon we should go from here?”

Faramir withdrew tactfully.  “Well, Shagrat,” he said, “I think we’re at a stage where I’d have to say I’m - completely open to suggestions.”

“Now then, Goldilocks,” the Uruk told him seriously, when his companion made no further attempt to offer anything.  “I know very well you’ll only ever want me for one thing.  And it’s all right, because even that’s a lot more than I ever had any hope of expecting.  There’s no need to be standing on ceremony – I know that that’s what you brought me out here for.   I get it.  I do.”  

Faramir didn’t immediately reply.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t, Faramir insisted, stubbornly.  “I don’t even know why we’re still arguing about this.”

“It’s because I’m an Orc, Goldilocks,” Shagrat explained, “and you’re not, and that means you’re so far – _above_ me I’m always going do what you say.  But it’s not like I don’t want to, so you don’t need worry on that score.  I’ve known since you and me - well, since the first time we got together all those years ago that this was going to be the way of it.”

“Shagrat, back then I was barely nineteen – and practically a virgin, if you didn’t already know it.  It comes as little enough excuse, I know, but I was completely ignorant of any matters relating to – well, to gentlemanly conduct in and around the act of sexual congress!  I didn’t think and I’m heartily sorry for it.”

The Uruk interrupted Faramir abruptly, insisting that he should forget about all that.

“I didn’t realise how what I was doing was affecting you,” Faramir persevered.  “If you’d any idea!  The one time I did try to – to start something, tried to catch you before you went rushing away afterwards that is, I nearly ended up emasculating myself on that dreadful iron cod-piece you used to wear.”

The Orc seemed mystified by this.

“You don’t remember?” Faramir asked ruefully.  “I tried – well, to rub encouragingly against you and ended up catching myself on that awful contraption.  With acutely painful results, as I recall.”

Shagrat grinned.  “Is that what you were about?  I thought you were having a fit or something.  Oh, I’d forgotten about that protective!  It was a good one – hung just right and didn’t chafe or anything.  Perfect fit.  I won’t see another like that again.”

“Personally I was glad to see the back of it,” Faramir said.  “Though of course those early experiences I enjoyed with you very much warped my sense of perspective - and I have to say, later expectations,” he continued.  “Really, you did rather spoil me for anyone else.”

“Warped you?” the Orc repeated, immediately on his guard.  “Spoiled you?  What d’you mean, ‘spoil’?”

“I meant ‘spoil’ as in ‘indulge’,” Faramir replied soothingly.  “And my word, Shagrat, you did indulge me generously and so very often, as you know!  I think it’s high time that I – well.  I made an attempt to recompense you for some of that. ”

The Prince took both of the Orc’s hands in his.  “As I said, I’m completely open to suggestions,” he repeated, then told Shagrat to name his terms, adding the hasty afterthought that Shagrat should in no way interpret what he, Faramir, was saying as a coded request for any more of what the Orc called ‘rough treatment’.

“It’s just that I want you to know I’m quite willing to have you lead the way for a change, Shagrat,” he explained. “Tell me what you want from me, for once.  It seems to be the very least that I can do.”

The Orc considered this for a time and then he said:

“What I want, what I’d really like is –“

Faramir waited - steeling himself, quite prepared to surrender to the utmost depths of an Orc’s depravity, if that was what Shagrat required of him.

The Uruk eyed him warily and began again: “I’d like –“

Shagrat broke off, looking doubtfully around what was, technically, a rose-garden.  But the lawn was churned to mud, the flower beds had withered in the frost, and the trellised arbour that they were lingering in, far from being a fragrant, shady nook was damp and draughty, thorn-spiked, and smelled as if it had been recently used by a urinal by any number of cats.  But Goldilocks had asked him what he wanted, and the Uruk supposed that this was as good a time and a place as any.  And so he named his heart’s desire:

“Maybe we could do – what we’re going to do inside, instead.  If I’m going to be sucking you off, down on my knees - ”

The Prince stared at him, amazed that after everything that had been said the Orc still assumed he would be on the giving rather than the receiving end of such treatment.

“I want us to go indoors because when I’m on my knees for any length of time and it’s cold and damp like this it plays havoc with my joints,” Shagrat said.  “I’m not as young as I used to be.  These days I get twinges of – the thing is I think I’m getting a bit….rheumaticky, as time goes on.”

On hearing this minor petition for a slight change of scene Faramir spluttered out a short, relieved snort of laughter.  He’d been braced for the worst - for some sort of bloody and painful interaction involving whips or chains perhaps, from what he thought he might know of Orcish preferences in general - but even in his relief he realised he had misjudged Shagrat once again.  Faramir had been expecting at the very least that his companion would want to exact some kind of retribution, given his past behaviour towards him.

With his lips pressed together in a firm, disapproving line the Orc watched Faramir’s amused reaction.  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he told him touchily.  You’d know better, if it was you.”

“I do know better,” Faramir spluttered, trying to assure Shagrat that he was not laughing at him, “because in fact I sometimes suffer from a similar affliction myself.  I just had no idea that you did, too.”

“At your age!”

“Years and years spent sleeping behind a waterfall and on the ground in Ithilien have left me a shadow of the man I might otherwise have been,” Faramir explained.  “As it happens I do have some embrocation that I’ve found to be quite effective,” he continued.   “It’s a herbal paste, with special ingredients added that produce quite the illusion of warmth and heat.  Quite useful as a topical application.”

“Firey Jack!” Shagrat exclaimed.  “That wasn’t the stuff you wanted me to put on my knob the other night was it?  It’d near enough have burned the bloody thing off me!”

Faramir shook his head vehemently.  “I intended nothing of the sort!”

The Orc was nodding.  “All right, Goldilocks,” he replied, “I’ll take your word for it because I suppose I ought to tell you that pain and sex really isn’t my thing.  In Mordor,” he added with an ominous growl, “I had enough of that blasted nonsense to last me a lifetime.”

“It isn’t mine either!” Faramir protested. “I don’t know what made you think that.”

“And – since we’re getting all this out in the open,” Shagarat continued resolutely, “I’m not too keen on giving, or taking it up the arse.  So if you’re expecting to bum me, or have me do you again, well, I – I’m not ruling it out, but I wouldn’t count on it, either.”

“I’m far from being married to the idea of that myself!  But - what was the other night all about in that case?” Faramir demanded, mortified.

“I thought it’s what you wanted,” Shagrat replied.  “That’s what we do, isn’t it?  What you want to.”

“Not if you don’t!” Faramir yelled.  “How many times must I say it to convince you!”

The Orc looked distinctly unnerved by his vehement response and Faramir struggled to calm himself. “What _do_ you like, Shagrat?”

He didn’t think it was a difficult question, but the Uruk only gave him a helpless look.

Faramir kept on.  “How about what you suggested before, then?  What you were proposing – the, ah, activity that would’ve required you to be down on your knees.  But for once – I could be the one doing it for you.  As I’ve said quite a few times before, I’d be glad to.”

Shagrat eyed him warily. “I don’t think so, Goldilocks.  My cock’s been in your mouth exactly twice - and you’ve tried to kill me afterwards both times.”

Looking pained, Faramir tried to convince him that on each occasion what had happened _before_ and _after_ represented completely separate, and wholly unrelated events.  “It was just an unfortunate – an extremely unfortunate combination of recurring bad circumstances.  The odds have always been stacked against us, Shagrat,” he said. “You know that.”

But still the Orc seemed unconvinced.

 


	22. After midnight

 

Nothing had been resolved between them as yet, but in accordance with Shagrat’s earlier request to not be stuck out in the cold and wet, the Prince and his Orc began to make their way across the gardens, heading for the place where the state coach had been left.

On arriving at the vehicle Faramir was able to make out only the back end of it, as the carriage had clearly been jammed straight into the middle of a thicket.  It also seemed to be listing severely to one side, which made the Prince hope for a fervent moment that it would turn out to have been damaged beyond repair.  Pushing back the prickly branches that overhung the vehicle, he and Shagrat fought their way inside.

The two companions sat side by side in silence for a time.  The carriage drapes were closed and inside the coach it was black as pitch.  Faramir found that he couldn’t see a thing; not a hand raised in front of his face.  He sat quietly, remembering then that for various reasons the Orc had always seemed far more comfortable when they were alone together in the dark.

“If you’re not up for doing anything just now,” Shagrat said eventually, having clearly misinterpreted his companion’s hesitation, “we could just sit here for a bit and talk.  Hold hands some more, maybe.  I’d like that.”

This was a farily typical development, considering that from the very start their dealings with one another had played themselves out in what could described – at best - as being a topsy-turvy manner. 

They’d begun with some fairly hard-core Uruk-on-Man sex acts back in the days when they’d barely known each other, but since then seemed to have been steadily regressing - to the extent that now Shagrat said he just wanted them to sit together and hold hands!   

At this rate they would soon have to begin affecting their first introductions, the Prince thought frantically; although the very modesty of his companion’s expectations in this area soon made Faramir reconsider.  The Orc must have had - or rather, given certain technical aspects of his abilities he very clearly _had_ had considerable experience in the field of carnal contact.  What he hadn’t had previously however, was, of course, a sweetheart.

Looked at like this, all at once their whole situation became transparently obvious: everything the Uruk had ever instigated between them was simply part of Shagrat’s overall strategy – his misguided, twisted, and at times outstandingly poorly-chosen strategy - for trying to get to know Faramir better.  Given the dubiousness of his companion’s origins – not forgetting his questionable background, the Prince couldn’t find it in himself to fault him for any of it.  Earlier in the evening Faramir had asked Shagrat about his sexual preferences but hadn’t gotten a reply, and he now realized this was because the issue was not so much what the Orc liked during sex - it was more accurately a question of: ‘who’?

This weighty realization quite took the wind from Faramir’s sails.  He sat close beside Shagrat, holding and gently chafing his companion’s rough, mis-shapen, talon-bearing hands.  His heart felt very full.

“You know how you like books,” the Orc said suddenly, following a minute or two of this.

For a moment Faramir didn’t quite trust his voice to hold itself steady. Then he cleared his throat and answered that yes, he did know that, in fact.

“Well I heard about this book,” the Uruk told him, “from this place, east of Far Harad.  I mean _way_ out east - in jungle country.  Don’t know what they call it exactly, but I heard they’ve got this special book.  It’s got all this stuff – and drawings, pictures of people - I mean men and women and all sorts, while they’re having – relations.  You know.  While they’re – “ he dropped his voice – “at it.”

“Yes,” Faramir replied, adding that he was reasonably familiar with the volume.

“You’ve seen it?” said Shagrat, in surprise.  “Is it any good?”

Faramir shrugged non-commitally.

“The way I heard,” Shagrat said, “is that it tells you how to do - what you should do.  Different stuff and that.”

“I mean,” Shagrat continued in a lowered voice when Faramir didn’t reply, “it shows you how you to do – all special stuff – to one other.  Right?”

“I would say,” Faramir told him carefully, “that in my opinion, as a general rule you tend to manage quite adequately all by yourself.  You’re – a lot more than adequate, in fact.”

“Me?” the Orc exclaimed.  “Nah! I only know your bog-standard, middle of the road stuff.  Nothing special about it.”

“Take my word for it,” replied Faramir, “what you do is – well, I for one find it quite - all right.”

“I saw how it was with that fellow at your fancy shindig, though,” Shagrat continued a moment later, with a definite edge of jealousy entering his voice.  “The way he was all over you - like a _rash_.”  The Orc sat silent, simmering bile and murderous intent.  Then he sighed out.  “I’d like to a have a good look at that book,” he said.

Faramir relaxed a little.  “Which fellow is it you’re talking about?”

“That tall man you was talking to when I came in,” Shagrat replied bitterly, “you know - him who tried to tell me I should sling my hook.  The one with all the shiny hair.  And he had on a really fancy, glittery dress.  Washed-out, weedy-looking kind of cove I thought, but he had a - a sort of an -” the Uruk lowered his voice again here - “an Elvish look about him.”

“Well, I understand that a grandfather, or great-grandfather of his was one.  He does seem to have a tendency to play that aspect up a bit much, though.  I should tell you Shagrat, they’re not really all like that.”

“I don’t much care how they really are or really aren’t, your Highness.  It’s just that that one looked like he wanted to do special stuff to you, all right.  I bet he could’ve done, for all that.”

“I bet he couldn’t’ve,” Farmair countered.  “Want of opportunity, if nothing else, would have placed  an immediately insurmountable obstacle in his way.  You know, Shagrat, I’m hardly in the habit of going off with anyone who asks.”

The Uruk sighed out gloomily.  “So he did ask you, then.”

“Not in so many words,” the Prince replied.  “I think he simply assumed I’d fall over myself for a chance to spend the remainder of the night keeping company with him.  Excusable enough I suppose, as I don’t expect he’s much accustomed to being turned down.  Still, it was rather presumptuous of him.  As if I was to be had so easily as that!”

“Neither am I!” the Orc said sharply. “You know,” he continued slowly, after a moment, “since you - _went_ \- from Mordor, that first time.  I haven’t really been with anyone else.  Not properly.”

“Nobody?” Faramir was shocked.  “In all that while?”

Shagrat seemed to reconsider briefly.  “Well,” he said, “I suppose that depends.  Not doing anything I would’ve wanted - or had much chance of putting a stop to at any rate, and I don’t reckon if it’s like that it should count.  If you put it that way – apart from you, I mean- then there’s hardly ever been – well, anyone, really.  So maybe that’s got to do with why I was so – you know, upset, before.  To think even that little bit had gone to cock as well.”

What the Orc had said spoke such dark volumes about what he considered to be his usual prospects that it brought Faramir up short again.

“Oh, Shagrat,” he said sadly, and clutched his companion’s hands very tight.

At once the Uruk stiffened beside him in the dark and pulled himself away.  “Here,” he snarled, “I’ll not be having any of that.”

All in a moment the atmosphere between them had undergone a most definite change.  Sure as he felt of Shagrat in general, for some reason Faramir recollected then that he was alone in the presence of what most people would consider to be a dangerously unpredictable creature: a savage Orc out of Mordor, no less.  He shifted uneasily, startled to find himself feeling vaguely apprehensive.

“You should take off some of that stuff you’re decked out in,” Shagrat announced. “I mean, it’d be better if you took some of your regalia, bells and whistles and hoop-la and all that, off.”

“I think I’d prefer to keep it on for the moment, actually,” Faramir said.  In the formal outfit he was wearing he was indeed both hot and bothered - not to mention spectacularly overdressed - but there was something in the Orc’s tone that made him hesitate.

“You’d be far more comfortable I should think,” Shagrat replied.  And then: “we wouldn’t want anything happening to your posh togs, now, would we?”

“Why on earth should anything untoward happen to my clothes?”  Faramir protested, thinking that even to his own ears he was sounding thoroughly absurd.  “That is to say – we’re out of the wet now.  I mean it’s perfectly safe and dry in here already.”

The dark rumbling noise Shagrat made could have been pitched to be anything between a growl and a low chuckle.  “Perfectly safe, you reckon, is it?”

Faramir found he didn’t have a ready answer for that.

“You should take off that fancy jacket at least.  Looks heavy.  And while you’re at it - why don’t you take your boots off as well.”

There seemed to be no good reason not to comply, yet still Faramir hesitated.  Then he began removing his shoes.  Working by touch, he leant over and arranged them neatly together by the base of the seat opposite.

His outer garment was cut something like a surcoat but had a much closer fit - especially across the shoulders and around the waist.  This was a more difficult prospect, because as Shagrat said, it was heavy -  weighed down with an embarrassing amount of embroidery, together with many superfluous swags of golden frogging that hung down and swung aggravatingly from each shoulder. The Prince’s coat was cut from a highly-decorated material so stiff and unyielding that to wear something made from it was not unlike being encased in a piece of heavy-duty carpet.

The topmost button in particular closed very tightly against Faramir’s throat and he had to arch his neck up, tilting his head back in order to unfasten it.  As he did so, out of the darkness beside him there came a wordless murmur of appreciation.

“You looked well in that, tonight,” said Shagrat, but his tone was so dry that Faramir had no idea whether or not he was speaking seriously.  He turned automatically to look at his companion but of course, couldn’t see a thing.

“No, I mean it,” the Orc said.  “You did, it suits you.  I think I like you better with it off, though.”

Faramir pulled the jacket – out of which he had finally managed to wriggle – up to his chin and held it crumpled against his chest.  “Are you – you’re not watching me getting undressed, are you?” he asked, querulous and feeling more than a little foolish.

“’Course I am,” the Orc replied.  “Can’t see the colours though,” he added a moment later, “’cause when it’s dark like this all you get in front of you is stuff looking grey and white.”  

As if that made everything all right!

“Faramir,” he went on, “stop faffing about.  Just - sling it over there.  But mind and leave your shirt and breeches on, eh?”

Despite the cold outside, of a sudden Faramir was hot all over and terribly flustered.  He half stood up from his seat beside Shagrat, ostensibly reaching to stow his jacket out of the way.  “I don’t suppose you’d care to have a little more light in here, would you?” he said.

The Prince could tell, even if he couldn’t see, that Shagrat was shaking his head in the dark.

“You did ask,” the Orc said, “and I think I like it better like this.”  But he reached over and pushed back a pair of the closed window drapes.  It was really surprising how little difference this made inside.  

Outside the waning moon was still shining low in the sky and a greyish cast to the gloom told Faramir that daybreak could not be far off.  He could even make out a section of dimly-lit lawn as – well, as a less-black patch through the window - but barely any light filtered in through the dense foliage that surrounded them.

When Faramir was up on his feet Shagrat had moved behind him and was now fingering the sash that was tied around his companion’s waist.  

“So what’s this thing for?” he said.

“Decoration,” Faramir replied shortly.  It had probably been a mistake for him to try and stand upright in the cramped and awkward space. “It’s called a sash, or cummerbund.”

“Cummerbund?” the Orc repeated, with quite unnecessary emphasis.  Having already unwound a section from one end he spent a second or two tugging on the material, as if he was testing the strength of it.  “Now, I wonder what makes them call it that?”

The Orc ran his paws along the smooth fabric as he spoke, then brought them stroking round Faramir’s flanks until they met together at the front.  From there they dropped downwards and pressed into the Prince’s groin in a manner that was certainly suggestive - if completely lacking in subtlety.  

Faramir pulled away from the Uruk in irritation - and then staggered, as the abrupt change in balance made the carriage lurch slightly on its axels. “Shagrat!” he snapped. “That’s enough!”

At that the Orc was standing up behind him, and quickly caught hold of Faramir as if to help him keep his footing.  One long arm went up to hold him tight across the chest and biceps, pinning his upper arms against his ribs and at the same time a strip of soft material – his sash, Faramir realized - went twisting about his wrists.  With a swift movement Shagrat bent him forwards from the waist - suddenly; effortlessly; manoeuvring him rapidly and with such unexpected assurance that it was impossible for Fararmir, disoriented in the dark as he was, to resist.  As he was pushed forwards his arms were yanked out in front of him by the fabric around them, up to a point where they caught and held.

“What have you tied me up for!” he cried.

“Well, your Highness,” Shagrat told him, “time will tell.  I s’pose we’ll just have to wait and see.”

 Faramir had been bound by the wrists with a section of sash: his arms were stretched out from his body and were tied to some anchoring point slightly above his head.  There was a certain amount give in the bindings and furiously he wrenched himself sideways from Shagrat, stumbling forwards in the dark - only to bang his forehead one or two small and faltering steps later on one of the large, elaborately-carved gilded bosses that hung down from the ceiling of the carriage. Sparking lights flared in the Prince’s vision as he ran his hands over the woodwork, clinging to it for balance. This was the fixed point to which his wrists had recently been secured.

“Better watch yourself on that,” the Uruk told him, with all apparent sincerity.

“I don’t know what on earth you think you’re playing at,” Faramir said weakly.  “But you should stop this nonsense at once, Shagrat.  You’re behaving ridiculously.”

Between the protrusions of decorative woodwork there was enough headroom in the coach for Faramir to stand upright.  He faltered backwards, trying to regain his seat, but soon found that although there was some play in the strip of cloth that Shagrat had looped about his wrists, even with his arms at full stretch the length of material left wasn’t quite sufficient to allow him to reach the upholstery behind him.  He subsided as far back as he was able and was dismayed to find himself sitting squarely in the sprawling Uruk’s lap – no doubt exactly as had been Shagrat’s intention all along.

Without further preamble the Orc tore into Faramir’s shirt-tail with his claws, ripping the fabric up and open across his back.

The Prince was aghast.  “I thought you said that – I thought we’d both agreed that this kind of – of rough-housing was going to be strictly off-limits!” he protested.

“Rough-housing?  This?” the Uruk said slyly.  “But there isn’t a mark on you.  I haven’t laid a finger on you yet, have I?”

“’Yet’?” Faramir repeated, his voice a high-pitched squeak.

Shagrat huffed out a quick, amused snort.  “And I’m not going to, either.  Not the way you’re thinking, anyway.”

“Then why’ve you - what is the meaning of –“ Faramir leapt up again and pulled violently at the binding about his wrists, which to his surprise, held firm.  He tugged even more forcefully for emphasis, hauling at the fabric until he made the whole vehicle shake.

Faramir felt the carriage dip on its wheels and sway again as the Orc stood up and moved close in behind him.  He laid one heavy hand on the back of Faramir’s neck and scarcely gripped tight at all; merely allowed him to feel the weight of it resting there, warm and heavy.  Then his thumb went into the tender hollow between the Prince’s collarbones and stroked or pushed itself into the space between them, again using barely any pressure.

It was an unwelcome sensation, invasive and unpleasant, that made Faramir acutely aware of the rhythm of his breathing, and his own pulse beating in his throat.  Shagrat held him like that for a time, letting him test the wiry strength in his long arms until eventually he stopped struggling.  

With his arms stretched in front of him and the Orc pressing down on his neck, Faramir’s shoulders soon began to ache.  But the hard body bearing down on him felt utterly inflexible; these days Shagrat, Faramir realized with a sinking feeling, had more strength in him than he’d thought to give him credit.

As he stood there with the Orc lurking - menacingly lurking - behind him, Faramir had only time for a single flash of doubt regarding his position – a queasy moment during which he had to ask himself what on earth he’d gotten into.  He was beginning to experience the first inklings of serious concern; that perhaps he was about to get what some people might say he deserved, for wilfully dallying with a Mordor Uruk.

Then he reminded himself that after all it was only Shagrat he was worrying about.

“What is the meaning of this!” Faramir bellowed.

“Steady, Goldilocks,” the Orc shushed him.  “For all I know Azof and Ruskush might still be hanging about.  You wouldn’t want them walking in on us, would you?”

“You brought Azof and Rukush with you!” Faramir spluttered, beside himself at the very idea.  “You brought them here?  As well, I notice, as your little Halfling friend too!  Now I suppose you’re expecting me to welcome them one and all, are you?  Well then!  Whyever not?”

“I know we’ve talked about you being funny in the head for Orcs and all,” Shagrat said slowly, “but you don’t _really_ want me to go and fetch those two berks in here with us, do you?”  His tone was as neutral as he could make it and this was, Faramir realized, an absolutely bona fide offer.  His companion was completely serious and at a word from him Shagrat would have gone to get the others: gone immediately, and put his own preferences aside.

Genuine offer or not Faramir didn’t deign to acknowledge it - although he could still have fought back, certainly.  He could have flailed his bare feet against Shagrat’s armour-plated shins, or he could have stamped down on the Orc’s heavily booted foot.  Yes, he could have tried and cut himself to pieces, in short.  He tensed his muscles, waiting to see what the Uruk would do next.

At length Shagrat guided Faramir backwards and made him sit down on him again.  He shoved his knees up between Faramir’s thighs, locked the Prince’s ankles against his own and spread his companion’s legs wide.  Then the Orc’s left hand slipped down the front of Faramir’s breeches.  After a moment the Prince quite forgot about whatever it was that had been worrying him. All was silent again for a time.

“You asked what’s the meaning of this, and it’s just I’ve noticed that sometimes,” Shagrat said, close against Faramir’s ear, “well sometimes your Highness, you like to be given a bit of direction.”

“You have?  I mean, I do?”

“Don’t you?”  The Orc’s fingers moved over him, stroking him slowly, caressingly.

“Possibly!” Faramir cried, very much in spite of himself, after a time.  “That’s - ah!  I suppose it’s – not impossible.”

The Uruk grunted. “I’m afraid ‘not impossible’s’ not going to be good enough to see you through tonight, Goldilocks.”

Shagrat had not released his earlier hold on Faramir and was still gripping him one-handed by the back of neck; but it was with his other hand - the one that had taken such an intimate hold on him - that the Orc was more effectively controlling him.  To poor Faramir it all felt terribly familiar: Shagrat’s left hand had taken a loose, almost casual grip around his member and was tantalising him mercilessly: the stimulation kept the Prince aroused and erect, but was on its own not nearly sufficient; it was only just enough to soon become an unending - if rather pleasurable - kind of torment.  If he tried to move against Shagrat’s hand the attention would immediately shift to his balls or the sensitive area behind them; if he made any attempt to redirect him from there the Uruk would lift his hand away entirely, replacing it only when Faramir’s erection showed signs of subsiding - after which he was of course so pathetically eager that he would be hard for him again in an instant.  It was clear to Faramir that strain as he might for a better, more satisfying type of contact, this was obviously for the moment going to be withheld.

At the same time the Uruk’s mouth was roaming over the sides of his throat, his shoulders and his upper flanks, working over him with hard, biting, bruising kisses.  Under this combined treatment Faramir was soon beside himself, but still the Orc continued, going on for so long that at last the Prince heard himself choking out a series of quick and anguished sobs.  His hair was in his eyes and despite the cold he was sweating, his knotted muscles were trembling and he could focus his thoughts on nothing but the heat and sensations; most of all the shameful, disgraceful pleasure he had been brought to in darkness by an Orc.

Oh yes, this was terribly familiar.  This took Faramir back, all right.

“I’m a grown man, Shagrat!” The Prince gasped at length.  He was surprised by what the Uruk had done to him; by how easily he had been brought to the end of his tether, almost - but still he gathered what was left of his dignity about him.  “I’m a grown man and I won’t be made to beg!”

Shagrat said nothing; simply released his hold on Faramir’s member and calmly tucked him back into his breeches, where his erection strained up and made a comical little tent of the cloth.  In spite of himself, the Prince made a choking sound of distress in his throat and spoke without thinking:

“Very well, Shagrat.  Yes!  I hadn’t thought of it in terms of ‘liking direction’ exactly, but since you want to put it like that - well then I suppose I must do.  Damn you - yes!

This appeared to be what the Uruk had been waiting for. “Right, your Highness,” he told him decisively. “Tit for tat.”

“Tit for -?” Faramir repeated bemusedly.  “ _What_?”

“I said ‘tit for tat.’  And bearing in mind what you once said to me - it’s time for you to show me what you like to do for yourself.  Go on, then.  Bring yourself off while I watch.”

Faramir felt his trousers being dragged down around his thighs and for a split second was on the cusp of making some indignant reply.  Then with barely a moment’s hesitation, he thought better of it and hurried to comply.  The Prince thrust himself frantically in the direction of the Orc’s hand which - after a moment as he found to his extreme dismay - was not waiting for him where he’d assumed it would be.

Faramir was mortified, and yet above all things found that most of all he did not wish to disappoint Shagrat.  He quickly tried to explain:

“Shagrat, you’ve made me most awfully - excited.  You know you have.  And it isn’t that I don’t want to be able to – to complete myself at your command,” he told him, hurried words tumbling out in a rush.  The highs and lows of his long evening; the unreasoning joy he’d felt when he saw Shagrat.  Those strong emotions were all beginning to take their toll on Faramir and he realized to his dismay that he was not so very far from breaking into wretched tears.  “Believe me when I say I dearly _want_ to do it.  But I don’t think I’m capable, not quite yet.  Goodness knows I’d like to and I’m more than willing, but I’m only human and I simply - _can’t_.”

“Hold your horses, Goldilocks,” Shagrat rumbled, and from the tone of his voice Faramir could tell that the Orc was now definitely laughing at him in the dark.  “You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, that’s all.  I know you’re not ready to finish yet.  Just getting you a little something to rub up on, aren’t I?”

Shagrat shifted under him, moving his hips so that Faramir was sitting further back across his stomach.  With clipped, jerky movements that belied his otherwise superbly nonchalant approach, the Uruk was laboriously loosening the opening in his breeches over his groin and he groaned a long sigh of relief as he eased himself free.  

It might have been Faramir’s imagination, but in the cold air of the carriage he would have sworn he could feel a gentle current of warmth radiating from Shagrat’s now-exposed cock.

“See if you don’t want to - to try yourself out on….that,” the Orc muttered.  For all his earlier semblance of assurance, his voice sounded rough and unsteady.  With his hand clutching the base of his member he held himself ready, angling his erection upwards for Faramir.

They were in a mightily awkward position and at first Faramir found it difficult to aim correctly.  He soon found that by taking some of his weight on the binding round his arms a better range of lower body movement was possible - and with a little effort was even able to move himself a short way up and down off Shagrat.  For a heady moment Faramir rubbed himself onto anything and everything wildly, not caring whether he was making contact with the Uruk’s thigh, his balls or his stiffly impressive erection – not even caring if what he was trying to come off against was the canvas cushion-top of the seat they were balancing upon, in fact.  After having his movements curtailed by the Orc for so long the mere prospect of thrusting his hips freely was enough to bring Faramir to the brink of an orgasm - but he made himself hold back.

Of course he held back because of Shagrat.  As soon as he started moving, the Uruk’s hand snatched itself away from the back of his neck; Shagrat had grabbed a frantic hold of the back of their seat instead and Faramir could hear the decorative woodwork splintering under his claws as he gouged his fingers deep and deeper in.  

And most uncharacteristically – for the Orc’s vocal style at such times tended not so much to being ‘quiet’ or ‘restrained’ as: completely silent to the point of it being difficult to tell, by sense of hearing alone, if he was still even there – most uncharacteristically he was making soft yet desperate sounds, part of his struggle for control; control of either his pain or arousal because admittedly when it came to Shagrat, it was often difficult to tell which was which.

Still, he sounded as if he might possibly have been enjoying it, and on balance Faramir chose to find this rather encouraging.  He brought his cock down onto the Uruk’s member, moved the entire length of it in a slow, deliberately scathing stroke - and was rewarded by a prolonged, strangled sort of noise from his companion.  Faramir smiled grimly.  The Orc always kept such a tight rein on his responses that it was quite something to get even a peep out of him.  This reaction, then, certainly had to count as some kind of success.

“This is what you had in mind, is it?” the Prince snarled out, through gritted teeth.

The Orc was quivering beneath him, his breathing ragged.  Faramir repeated the movment that had so provoked him.  He did it again, and again, and ground himself against Shagrat.  Occasionally he slid off him and had to start over; by now they were both so coated in sweat and other slippery bodily fluids that it took a great deal of concentration as well as effort for him to sustain any kind of useful rhythm. The Prince wondered for how long he might be able to carry on like this.

At last Faramir broke off and rested for a moment, chest heaving, hanging from his wrists. “Shagrat,” he said hoarsely. “Help me - deal with this, won’t you?”

The Orc obeyed immediately.  Both his hands went clutching around Faramir’s member, pressing it close against his own erection - and the effect was startling. The stimulation he’d received from Shagrat previously had never risen above a low level, though it had gone on for a long time and even after Faramir was free to move for himself his pleasure had again, been severely limited.  Now he found that the sensation of warm flesh finally enclosing him, holding him properly at last, was wonderfully intense, almost too much to be borne.  Faramir cried out to him as soon as he touched him, his climax coming on a split second before the Orc’s hands even started to move, and the screwing, twisting movements with which Shagrat slowly stroked and squeezed him prolonged the intense sensation; amplified it; wrung his pleasure out and out.

Faramir was shaking from head to foot by the time it was over.  He realized, with a slightly sinking feeling as he came back to himself, that he had allowed Shagrat to take the lead in what had gone between them yet again.

But the Prince soon found he had no need to worry on that score.  His thigh pressed against his companion’s now-softening erection and the Orc rubbed back appreciatively; it seemed there was still pleasure for him in it, and he pushed himself onto Faramir, groaning softly.

“What happened, Shagrat?” Faramir said ruefully.  Because of the way he was still tied, he had no choice but to address the Uruk over his shoulder.  “I thought you were going to let me attend to the - mechanics for you, for once.”

“It’s not like I was down here having a sly old wank!” the Orc protested earnestly.  “It’s only when you were having your – well, your moment.   Then you went and – well, you said my name like that, and that’s when I found that I was having a – a moment, too.  Couldn’t help myself.  Not that I wanted to,” he finished lamely.  Now that it was over he seemed oddly sheepish.

Unwilling to meet Faramir’s eye, the Orc began unfastening the bindings from round his wrists. “I was sure you’d’ve been able to get out of these no trouble,” he commented gruffly.  “I thought that must mean you wanted to go along with it.”

“I suppose I did, really,” Faramir sighed.

Shagrat nodded.  “It was only granny-knots!  I mean they are, mostly - I’d barely time to rig up something better.  I’d’ve thought an Ithilien Ranger-type like you would’ve been out of that lot in a jiffy.”

Those hastily-tied granny knots however, had tightened so much as to cut off most of the circulation in Faramir’s wrists, leaving his fingers numb and stiff.  Outside the carriage it had grown light enough by now for Faramir to be able to make out the finer details of the Uruk’s form and yet, still working as if by touch, Shagrat guided his companion’s cold hands up to his face and warmed them with his breath, licking his fingers and nuzzling gently, coaxing the life back into them.

As the feeling slowly returned to his hands, Faramir began tracing the rough pitted skin and tight ridges of scars on Shagrat’s face.  He stroked over the Orc’s craggy brows, his long, broken nose and felt the sharp points of his teeth.

Shagrat stiffened at once, jerking his head away.  “Here,” he said quickly, “that’s enough of that.”

That seemed the end of the quiet, tender moment between them.  Faramir rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

“Budge up then Shagrat, there’s a good chap,” he muttered, nudging his partner in the ribs to get him to make space for him on the bench.  But although Faramir elbowed him aside companionably enough, the Uruk over-reacted spectacularly.  Stifling a yowl he jumped off the seat - lunging a short way up into the air.

“Faramir!” he yelped. “Go a bit careful, all right?  I’m still – tender, down there!

Now he came to think about it Faramir realized that Shagrat’s most recent injury had given him surprisingly little trouble during their recent – rather energetic – tryst; suspiciously little trouble, in fact.  At once he found himself overtaken by vague sense of foreboding.

“What have you done to yourself, Shagrat?” he demanded.  “You haven’t been doing anything – foolish, have you?”

“No, no,” the Uruk insisted.  “I was just a bit – wobbly, before, that’s all.  So I took a swig of some stuff of Rukush’s to sort it.  It’s nothing to worry about.”

“’Stuff’?” Faramir exclaimed.  “What kind of ‘stuff’?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Shagrat replied wearily.  “Just some stuff to take the edges off.  Rukush said he got given it by this wizard when he lived up north – but he might’ve been making that part up. Whatever it was worked a treat, though.  I barely even noticed in the heat of it.  Must be wearing off now, I suppose.”  He groaned softly, his hand on his side. “I think I might have done myself a mischief.”

“Shagrat!  Were you really in that much pain?”

The Uruk shook his head.  “It was only a little something to keep me going,” he explained.  “I was all keyed up before I went in there, now knowing how things were going to turn out – with you and me seeing each other again, I mean.  Even if it went well – well, there’s no telling what you’d want to have us do afterwards.  And if I was going to have to go on all night there was no way I could’ve done without.  I had to take something to keep me at it, didn’t I?”

“And was it worth it?”  Fararmir asked, appalled.  “Just supposing – I mean, what if our meeting hadn’t gone exactly as you’d hoped?”

“Well,” Shagrat said, with a lopsided grin, “if you wanted shot of me then I’d definitely’ve needed something to get me through it, wouldn’t I?”

Faramir pulled the Uruk into his arms, exasperated and shaking his head.

“Look here, Shagrat,” he told him, “from here on in there’ll be no more talk – or thought – of my ‘getting shot’ of you or anything like that.  I have you once again – finally - and this time, I intend to keep you.  That includes keeping you in the best of health.  Here,” he said, enfolding the Orc in a tight embrace, “rest on me quietly, till you feel better.  We shall take as long as you like.”

Faramir pressed his lips against the Orc’s face and his forehead, kissing him urgently, ardently, anywhere he could reach him.  “Don’t you understand how much you mean to me?”

“Umph,” Shagrat grunted tiredly, relaxing against Faramir’s neck.  All too soon, however, he began shifting fretfully once again.

“Hold on,” he was muttering, “something here’s digging in me.”  Working his fingers through the buttons of Faramir’s shirtfront, he caught hold of the offending item, which the Prince was wearing as a necklace, and pulled it free.  Attached to the cord round Faramir’s neck was a slender piece of curved metal that had been drawn out into an elongated lyre-shape.  It was a fire-steel - a fragile-looking little thing that was not even as long as the palm of the Orc’s hand.

“Nice little piece of kit,” Shagrat commented absently, turning the fire-steel over in his fingers.  “Old-fashioned now of course, but d’you remember back when these things were all the rage?  I even had one a bit like this myself, once.  Must’ve lost it years ago, but I don’t recall when I ever -” The Uruk broke off then, frowning.

“Wait a minute,” Shagrat exclaimed.  On examining the object more closely he found he recognized it, and also realized that the last time he’d seen had been more than twenty years previously. “This is never the same one I had, is it?  It can’t be, can it?”

“You said I’d need a torch,’” Faramir interrupted.  “Told me I’d need more than one.  And then you asked me if I’d anything to light them with –“

*******

It was during  Faramir’s escape from Mordor all those years ago.  Together he and Shagrat had fought off the patrol sent to apprehend him, but the Orc had been gravely injured by a Cave Troll.  Fresh Orcish troops had been sent for and it was past time for the young Faramir to leave.   

He’d paused, taking Shagrat’s advice, and was picking out a number of fire-brands to take with him, that he intended to use to light his way through the pass of Cirith Ungol.  The fire-brackets were set high off the ground, more in a brawny Uruk’s long arm-reach than a young man’s, and Faramir had had to jump up repeatedly to try to dislodge them.

Shagrat was clammy with cold sweat and looked gaunt and hollow-eyed.  He was lying slumped on the floor, propped up against the door to which he’d recently been pinned by the Cave Troll’s pike.  The many layers of bandage that Faramir had tied over the terrible wound in his shoulder were soaking through with the Orc’s black blood already.

“Don’t let yourself get spooked beforehand or anything.  You’ll want to keep all those torches till you get up top – right to the peak of that pass I told you about,” Shagrat advised, watching Faramir’s efforts.  “You got a tinder-box, or any fire-making kit on you?”

Faramir shook his head and said he could easily make do.

“Best be on the safe side,” the Orc muttered to him.  “You’d better take this.  Here.  Catch.”  With his good arm he fumbled awkwardly in one of the pouches he carried at his waist then tossed a little bundle over into Faramir’s hands.  

Inside was a freshly cut flint striker, some dry tinder and a delicately curved steel fire-striker, all wrapped together in a long loop of leather thong.

“Souvenir from Mordor,” Shagrat said, baring his teeth to grin weakly at him.  “Keepsake for you  - or maybe better not.  You can always chuck it once you’re home and dry, can’t you?”

Faramir turned away from the Uruk, not wanting Shagrat to see the deplorable weakness that was affecting him, making him wish, desperately, that he was able to do something, anything more, to help his enemy.  At that point he felt – crazed impulse as it was - that he might even have taken the Orc with him if he could have.  But there was no place for Shagrat’s kind outside of Mordor and never would be, and no use in considering that impossible idea.  Forcing himself to focus his thoughts upon the subject of his escape Faramir asked:

“What sort of creature’s so afraid of firelight, Shagrat?  Tell me what it is that’s guarding the pass.”

“Take it from me Goldilocks, you’re better off not knowing,” Shagrat replied.  His head nodded forward onto his chest and he added faintly: “keep your wits about you and you’ll be all right now, I should think.”

********

“That frigging spider,” grumbled Shagrat, back in the present.  “Did she make any trouble for you, in the end?”

“I’m very happy to say I saw neither hide nor hair of it,” Faramir replied, “though I heard it was a great big one, by all accounts.”

“Ruddy enormous,” the Orc replied.  “You’re still better off not knowing.  If nothing else I thank my lucky stars I’ll never have to deal with that bloody thing ever again.”

“Something else I still have to make up to you.”

Shagrat cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “So, you’ve been wearing this thing round your neck ever since, have you?  How come I haven’t seen hide nor hair of it before?”

“I’ve been wearing it on a string close to my heart,” Faramir said, correcting him.  “On and off, over the years.”

The Orc stared at him.  “But why?”

“Why do you think?” the Prince answered.  Then, to forestall the very obvious coming question, because Shagrat was nothing if not of an entirely literal bent, he added: “and before you ask, no.  It wasn’t because I thought I might suddenly have cause to light a fire at very short notice.”

“Wouldn’t be much use for that anyhow,” commented Shagrat, “not without the flint part.  What would you plan on striking it with, eh?”

Faramir fished in the pocket of his breeches for a moment.  He took out a small leather pouch, emptied the contents into his hand and showed Shagrat the piece of flint he had with him.  It was old and smooth, the outer edges of the stone having long-since worn away, and had well-rubbed patches on it here and there, very much as if somebody had been in the habit of holding it and thumbing it in times of stress.  

Whoever had had the keeping of it must certainly have lived through prolonged and difficult times, because the whole surface was polished almost to a satiny gloss.

“I found it was quite invaluable to me during certain interviews with my deceased Father,” Faramir said.

“Blimey.  You’ll keep a hold of all sorts, won’t you?”

“Things that are precious to me, yes.”  Then, deciding it would be best to spell it out for him Faramir added: “and when I say ‘precious things’ here Shagrat, I mean ‘you.’”

The Uruk was silent for a while.  “I didn’t have anything of yours left,” he admitted, “not after they – well.  Anyway.  But if I could have, if I’d thought of it, I might’ve done something like that too.  Since I would’ve wanted to have – remembered and that, same way as you.  Because of the way I - I’ve always –“ but then he broke off, apparently unable to continue.  “You know what I’m saying, don’t you?” he finished, lamely.

Faramir could tell without even looking at him that the Orc was watching him earnestly, intently - searching for some sign of acceptance - or otherwise.

“Yes, Shagrat,” Faramir told him gently.  He settled against the Uruk and closed his eyes.  “Yes, I know what you’re saying.  And you must know that I feel – and I think I’ve always felt - the same way about you too.”

 


	23. Up the airy mountain

 

Afterwards they had a day or two to spend together, not nearly long enough after all the time they’d been apart.

Faramir’s behaviour on the night of the function had caused no end of hostile comment; he was being held accountable for his actions and anticipated a summons back to court.

Rukush and Azof had gone into hiding; Maz and his band were no doubt wandering in aimless circles, lost in the mountains by this stage and in spite of himself, Shagrat felt a grudging kind of responsibility towards the lot of them.  Before Faramir’s country-wide search for Shagrat led to all of them being taken into a sort of pre-emptive custody, they’d been doing nothing much worse than minding their own Orcish business.  Galling as it was, Shagrat came to the conclusion that he was going to have to go and find out for himself what had happened to everyone -  for the sake of his own peace of mind, if nothing else.

Under the circumstances the only sensible option was for Faramir and Shagrat to part company again. They travelled together for as long as they could share a common road, but all too soon their destinations led them in different directions.    

“I’ll visit you often,” Faramir assured him.  “We’ll be seeing each other frequently.  You can count on that.” 

“And I will do,” the Orc replied.  “So don’t go forgetting about me, Goldilocks, eh?”

(“Fat chance!” sneered Azof.  Whilst the Orc and his Prince had been otherwise occupied, Ludlow had had time to track him and Rukush down.  This hadn’t been difficult; the Hobbit found them both comfortably ensconced ‘hiding’ in about the third alehouse he looked in.)

So Shagrat and his rag-tag band struck out from the main road and began making their way towards their notional land holding, up in the mountains. 

Progress was slow on account of Shagrat’s injury; moreover they were travelling on foot and they had a miserable time of it, trudging through sloughs of sticky mud in the valley bottoms, then stumbling on up sodden hillsides in the pouring rain. Up on the mountain plateau they searched, fruitlessly, for the advance-party of Orcs, but at first could find no sign.  Not until afternoon on the third day, after the rain had stopped for long enough to allow the wispy clouds covering the upper slopes of the mountain to dissipate, did Rukush manage to sight smoke against the desolate hillside, the origins of which seemed to be a hidden cleft or gully, some distance down the hill below.  It seemed that Maz and his company hadn’t managed to climb very high into the mountains after all.

They trekked back down the side of the mountain to investigate.  By the time Shagrat and the others  reached the head of the hidden valley, the late winter sun was setting and a cold rain was blowing in from the west.   Rounding a corner they came to the edge of a broad open area.  It was part of the rock-strewn down-slope and was surrounded on three of its sides by craggy walls of rock.  And the other Orcs were camped there, the smoke they’d seen coming from a haphazard-looking fire - which was billowing clouds of smoke in a desultory fashion and threatening at any moment to go out.

“And what do they call you?” Shagrat demanded, stalking up and aiming a shove at one of the Orcs sitting nearest him on edge of the clearing.  It was someone he didn’t know by sight - a little mountain goblin with greenish-yellow skin and large, bulging eyes.  “Where’d we pick you up from, eh?”

The goblin looked the Uruk up and down fearfully.  Shagrat towered over him; the larger Orc’s teeth were bared and he was filthy, and reeking of blood. 

“’M’ Slaglob, if it pleases you, Milord -  Master – Your Honour - Sir,” the goblin gulped, wringing his hands apprehensively and all but tugging his forelock, “an’ I’ve come ‘ere from the North. ”

Shagrat looked around the clearing, carrying out a quick head-count of the ill-matched assortment  who were sitting, lounging and crouching among the fallen boulders that littered the rocky canyon floor.  There were about a dozen of them visible; snaga-Orcs, big mountain Orcs, fighting Uruks; Orcs of every description scattered through the clearing and all of them just – sat on their arses cluttering up the place – layabouts, loitering!  They were a thoroughly dispirited-looking bunch. 

“Now then Slaglob,” Shagrat asked briskly, “what d’you think you’re doing?  Can’t find anything better to do than just sit here twiddling your thumbs?”

 There was a yell and a brief flurry of activity on the far side of the canyon and all at once a short, wiry Orc was leaping towards them, the many mess-pans and tin cups and other assorted pieces of metal that were hanging off the enormous knapsack he was carrying making a merry clanking noise as he approached.  Stopping directly in front of Shagrat he drew himself up very straight, stuck his nose in the air and pushed his shoulders as far back as possible, his pose so rigid with tension that the strain of it, combined with the size of the backpack he was wearing made him overbalance and tip over backwards directly.

Moving very surreptitiously, the goblin Slaglob began creeping away.

Sighing under his breath, Shagrat bent down to help the knapsack-bearing Orc retrieve some of his fallen belongings.  The kitbag in particular was a deadweight he could barely lift.  “What on earth you got in here?” he asked in amazement.  “Rocks?”

“Sah!  Yes Sah!”  the Orc replied.  Scrambling to his feet and snapping rigidly to attention once again, he delivered an impressively elaborate salute.  “Second Lieutenant Dargaz of Mordor reporting for duty.  An’ we all knows who you is, Captain Shagrat, Sah!”  When he stood up straight like this, Dargaz’s flat nose reached to about level with the middle of Shagrat’s chest and he was a watery-eyed, otherwise utterly unremarkable-looking creature.  “Beggin’ your pardon,” he said, “but I seen you was questioning the private there,” – he indicated Slaglob, who had now succeeded in skulking quite some distance away from them  -  “and if you has h’identified some variety of problem, Captain Shagrat, Sah, as acting C.O., I’d be grateful for it if you was to h’address any concerns you might be ‘aving about this comp’ny direct to me. ”

Shagrat considered that.  “Well, Lieutenant Dargaz,” he said, raising his voice to address the massed group of Orcs at large, “my problem – if I’ve got one - seems to be that at the moment it looks very much as if you and Slaglob and all your mates ain’t even got the sense to get in out the rain.”

Manic energy seemed to burst forth from Dargaz.  Without warning he grabbed a violent hold of his own ears - one in each hand – and, yanking them painfully away from his head, proceeded to scamper back and forth in front of Shagrat agitatedly.

“Sir!  But Sah!,” he panted over his shoulder as he ran, “our h’instructions was to sit tight an’ await further orders, Sah!  An’ some of these laggards keep trying to wander off!  Me an’ my archers –“ he gestured vaguely towards the far wall of the canyon, “’we’ve been seeing to it that no-one’s able to break the line – or we’ll pincushion ‘em!  Turn ‘em inter walking pincushions for their trouble, won’t we?”  He began to laugh aloud then, a horrible, high-pitched tittering that seemed to force itself out of him.

“Ain’t that right, you lot!”  Dargaz bawled, flinging his head back in the rain and shouting straight up into the lowering sky.  At that a number of Orcish faces raised themselves briefly from their hidden perches high on the opposite cliff, before quickly ducking back under cover again.  After a moment a short, black-fletched arrow described a swift and deadly flight towards them, singing a near-miss past Dargaz before it lodged deep in the ground by Shagrat’s feet.

The Uruk jumped back.  “Strewth!”  

“We shoots straight, Sir, see?” a wheezy voice from up on the rock wall called down to him.

So!  Shagrat reflected.  Seemingly Dargaz had taken it upon himself to keep everybody here, their wishes to stay or go notwithstanding, had he?  This was a scenario so peculiarly reflecting (albeit in short-term and small-scale miniature) of a situation that every one of them had lived through in the not-particularly-distant past that it seemed to argue that Orcs, in many ways, might even be said to be agents of their own misfortune.  In Mordor as on a mountainside: here, out in the back-end of beyond left completely to their own devices and one of their own was _still_ managing to absolutely bollix things up for everyone else!

Looking at wild-eyed Dargaz as he transcribed an ever-decreasing circle, hurrying endlessly round and round and back and forth, Shagrat was forced to revise that first impression - of him seeming to be a wholly unremarkable sort.  Actually a closer look showed the signs that had always been there, in his twitching eyes and the way his face would keep rapidly changing expression in spite of there being no cues visible or audible to provoke it: the fellow must have fallen a long way off his rocker to get himself in this state, mustn’t he?  Shagrat wondered when he had first begun to crack.

“Dargaz!  At ease, Lieutenant,” he said.

The smaller Orc stopped in his tracks, chest and shoulders heaving.  He stared blearily up at Shagrat.  “That an order, Sir?”

The Uruk shrugged.  “If you like.”

“No!” Dargaz exploded.  “I been tasked wiv’ seeing to this!”  Now he was starting to froth a little, at the mouth.  “Us Orcs, we’re gonna rise up!  We heard a leader would be coming, an’ ‘ere you are!  A leader, ‘oo would guide us unto victory –“

 By now Shagrat had had more than enough of this.  “You must’ve heard wrong.   Or maybe picked the wrong bloke, because I’m not,” he said shortly.  “Now, this is my patch, here – “

“He’s got the paperwork to prove it!” Ludlow piped up, stepping forwards bravely.   There was some movement from the assembled Orcs sitting in the canyon then, as the ones in earshot turned curiously to look at him.

“That’s right,” Shagrat continued, raising his voice so they all could hear.  “And what I want’s a quiet life.  I say there’s room enough up here for anyone who wants to have a quiet life, alongside of me, if they want it.  But I’ll tell you now: there’s going to be no more playing of silly beggars, or rising up, or funny business in general, so anyone that doesn’t want something like that is going to have to – to sling their hook.  And I should think that’s by far the best offer any of you lot are going to be getting for a long while, out of me – or anyone else.”

 “But, we was _told_!” Dargaz snarled.  Baring his fangs he dropped his head and braced his feet for battle, quickly reaching for his weapons.

Before the mad Llieutenant even laid hands on the black-handled knife at his side, Shagrat was reeling back as the influence of a shock, far greater than the force of any physical blow, struck him.  It hit straight for the tracery of flat silvery scars that covered his shoulder and the left side of his body; leavings from a set of horrendous injuries that had once befallen him, long ago.  A fell blend of magic and witch-doctoring had been practiced in order to restore the Uruk, and now the remnants of it left in him were calling to – or answering  - a similar variety of black enchantment that had been used in the forging of Dargaz’s weapon.  Without even having to look at it, Shagrat knew beyond doubt what manner of blade it was the smaller Orc was carrying.

He grabbed at his stricken shoulder, as if holding tight could stop the joints from wrenching themselves apart and staggered sideways, clumsily taking hold of his own sword in his left hand.  This was more or less of a pointless effort: a freezing kind of agony was skewering down and down through the Uruk’s afflicted side, rooting him to the spot so effectively that he could no longer even step aside.

Dargaz began swaying delicately, back and forth.  Weaving like a snake about to strike, he held his poison-dagger out in front of him.

“Drop the cursed bloody thing, Lieutenant,” Shagrat panted.  “Now, that _is_ an order.”  

The other Orc ignored him. 

The knife Dargaz carried, in common with its owner, was small and dull and nondescript - but its uninspiring looks belied the latent power with which it had been suffused.  The power that Dargaz, through his raves and raging had conjured was immediately recognized by every Orc present, for it was of exactly the same type as the power that their dark masters in Mordor, and elsewhere, had wielded in control of them, and they knew the cruel shape of it; as familiar as the sting of a burn on the skin or the pain from the bite of a lash. 

As Dargaz drew his knife, the Orcs closest by immediately began backing away, and of Shagrat’s company only Rukush recalled his earlier instructions.  As they were climbing up the mountain, the old Captain had at one point taken Rukush and Azof aside.  “If it all starts going pear-shaped,” he told them, nodding towards the  - oblivious - Hobbit who had wandered on ahead of them, “if there’s any aggro or it all starts kicking off or anything, you’re under strict instructions to keep _him_ out of it, all right?” 

Stepping forwards now, Rukush lifted Ludlow off his feet, tucked the Hobbit under his arm and carried him off out of harm’s reach.  

Dargaz, meanwhile, gave no sign that he’d noticed any of this; already sunk too far in madness maybe, or perhaps he considered the others unworthy of his notice.   

Movement of any kind was becoming difficult for Shagrat, yet he was able to manage a feeble side-swipe with his weapon; a negligible act of resistance really, performed more or less for appearances’ sake.  But still the Orc regretted it instantly and he was reminded of how far he’d come from appreciating his ever-subservient, always-inferior position in the natural order when Dargaz’s attention momentarily focussed on the sword in his left hand.  He felt a quick twist then a snap of bone, and shrieked out once through his teeth.   

The Uruk slumped onto one knee, sword still clasped in his injured hand.  It was all he could do to roll his eye up towards the smaller Orc and what he saw there appalled him: Dargaz, by now, had all but gone; his essence in effect replaced by whatever fragment of personality or type of presence it was that had anchored itself to the earthly plane by means of his wicked, black-bladed little knife.

Shagrat looked into the eyes of the dagger’s incorporeal master and as the shred of that twice-dead entity stared back, there passed between them a dawning, dreadful kind of recognition.  Shagrat could not help but recognise the last, fragile, spirit remnant of a Ring-Wraith to which he had once been sent for questioning.  At the same time the fragment, or echo of a personality bound to the knife slowly bared Dargaz’s teeth in a mocking rictus of a grin.   

The Wraith would not allow Shagrat to break its gaze; he struggled mightily but as always, and even in this sorely reduced state it was able - effortlessly  - to overpower him.  Numb with horror, he began to register the tendrils of its influence – fainter that he would have believed possible, but still horribly familiar to someone who had experienced such an invasion before – tendrils of influence slipping towards him like particles of smoke, wavering, then settling into him, like a foot into a well-worn shoe.

Dargaz raised the black knife high over his head.  Pits were forming on its dull surface and an evil-coloured mist was rising from it.  Shagrat estimated the impact would likely hit a weak point in his armour, just below the collarbone.  Not intended to be a killing blow, it would in all likelihood be enough to render his current situation permanent.   More than enough, probably.

All the joints in Shagrat’s neck had seized in place but from the corner of his eye he was able to register movement among the Orcs off to his left, where a frantic, jerky scuffle seemed to be taking place.  Rukush yelped in pain and surprise, and swore.

“He bit me!” he cried, as he lost his hold on the Hobbit he was carrying and utterly failed to keep him back at the prescribed safe distance.

“Shagrat!  Shagrat!” Ludlow was yelling.   He pelted headlong towards the Uruk.

Shagrat couldn’t even turn his head but for now his voice - at least - was still his own.  He managed to howl out -“Rukush!  Grab him!” before a strangle-hold crushed and closed his throat.  The Uruk was considering, thoughts coming through a familiar kind of mental fogging, that as last words went at least these were better-intentioned than anything he might previously have anticipated.  He was still thinking about that when the not-inconsiderable mass of Ludlow, with all the momentum of his short-distance run came barrelling into him.  They went crashing down together.

The Hobbit’s approach provided a timely moment of distraction.  As Dargaz’s (or whatever presence it was that was currently animating Dargaz’s), attention turned to him, one of the Orcish archers moved into the open, taking aim as he stepped out from cover on the opposite cliff.  A black-flighted arrow flew towards Dargaz and hit him squarely in the back of his upraised hand. 

The deranged Orc faltered visibly at the impact but stood wavering for a second or two, still trying to clutch the poison knife.  He lost his hold and it fell as it was rending the very air in pieces, fell with an ear-splitting screech, and hit the ground with a heavy clunk.  The shrill noise cut off abruptly, the echoes of it rolling round like thunder about the rock walls of the canyon. And Dargaz dropped onto his back, pole-axed.

Whatever force had held him fast had now retreated.  Freed from the knife’s influence, Shagrat rolled sideways away from the spot where it had fallen, taking the Hobbit with him.

“Did it get you?  Did it get you?  Are you cut?”  Kneeling beside his companion, Shagrat pawed inexpertly at the fastenings of his clothes, panickily trying to reassure himself that Ludlow had remained intact.

Azof sauntered up.  Now it was too late to do anything useful, of course. 

“Cor!  Shaggers!” he exclaimed.  “You planning on drilling ‘im right on the spot?  ‘Course, I’d always ‘eard that near-death situations could ‘ave this very effect.   H’affirmation of life.  Or something.  Innit?”

 “Fuck off, Azof,” Shagrat snarled, low and deadly.

“Oooo!  An’ now the veneer slips!  You seen what a temper he’s got on ‘im before, ‘ave you, half-pint?”

“I’m all right, Shagrat,” Ludlow said, ignoring Azof.  He gave him a watery smile.

“What were you thinking!” the Uruk exploded.  “You should never have gone near it!   Because, you know, even the smallest scratch from a blade like that –“

“I’m fine,” Ludlow insisted.  “And I’m very glad that you are too.  But –“ and he eyed the varied assortment of Orcs who were now beginning to edge curiously towards them – “maybe just at the moment there’s something else you might find yourself wanting to be getting on with?”

“Right.  You’re right.”  Collecting himself with an effort, the Uruk clambered up and drew in a deep breath.  “So who else reckons they’re with this pillock?” he roared, pushing Dargaz with his foot.

“It’s just us up ‘ere!” the wheezy-voiced Orc shouted to Shagrat directly.   “An’ we’re throwning down our weapons!  See?  We’re comin’ out!”

“Didn’t ‘ave ‘ardly no more arrows left anyway,” another of the archers added.

“And our ‘ands is up!” a third one said.

The Orcs from the cliff, not as many as ten, but certainly a half dozen or more strong, trooped down into the clearing.

“We’re with you, Captain!” Wheezy-voice called nervously as they approached.  “I mean, I shot the Lieutenant when the chips were down for you didn’ I?  We wan’ surrender, and all that!”

“Yeah.  You’ve said.”  Shagrat looked down his long nose at the lead archer.  The Orc stood up straight for inspection, barely even cowering away from him at all.  Based on the style of his bone-and-plate armour the Goblin, in common with the majority of Dargaz’s archers, was probably of mountain tribe-stock originally, and like the others he had greeny-grey skin, wide eyes and black, stringy hair.  He was relatively short in stature and was also, Shagrat realized after a moment, female.  Not that there was much – because she was in this respect, a typical Orc - by way of looks or her style of dress to indicate this.  Still the Uruk shifted slightly, quite unconsciously altering his stance.    

“Me name’s Melek,” the lead archer told him, “an’ that’s Burzurg, who I put as me second in command after the Lieutenant there, completely went an’ lost it.”

“Old Dargaz,” she went on, shrinking a little under the Uruk’s cold-eyed stare, “now, if you’ll only let me h’explain, I don’t think any of what’s ‘appened was really his fault.” 

“He were never the same after taking hold of that blasted knife!” Burzurg put in, and between the two of them, the rest of Dargaz’s short, sad story was soon related. 

Led by Dargaz, the squad of archers had banded together following the end of the war, until one dark and moonless night they had been  picking their way round the edge of one of the old battlefields, out on the plain of Gondor –

“And it called to him!” Burguz cried.  “Summoned ‘im, straight out the ground!  Buried deep, an’ all steeped in old blood and bone and what-not but he wouldn’t stop – just kept digging, an’ digging, down, down, down through the muck and gore.  Night after night he had us there, searching, and ‘ee’d never say what for!  And then after he found it -”

“He always was a bit of a stickler,” Melek broke in, “but after he laid hands on that knife he went totally _bonkers_ about it.  There were never no more reasoning with him.”

“Like you saw!  Said he had ‘fresh orders’.  Like he wanted to pick up where we left off fighting the war but this time he’s determined us lot’s gonna win.”

“An’ we said, what, with just the six of us?”

“So he said we’d have to find reinforcements, wouldn’t we?  That’s when we heard talk about you.  An’ he gets this idea in ‘is head you’re going to be the one who leads us -”

“So we come up ‘ere to find you, ‘cos that’s where they says you’re going to be.  Then we waits.”

“So what I’m askin’,” Melek said, looking Shagrat straight in his good eye, “on account of the Lieutenant, who was a good sort and a – a stalwart fellow, what ‘eld us lot together through thick and thin an’ most of all when times was rough.   What I’m askin’ is maybe you could think about going a bit easy on him?”  She wrung her hands together.  “It weren’t his fault!”

Shagrat fidgeted under the earnest archer’s gaze.  “Fine,” he said eventually and looked away, chewing his lip.  

Dargaz was still lying on the ground, where he had commenced shivering and gibbering quietly.  It was the kind of reaction Shagrat could very well understand.

 “War’s over Dargaz,” the Uruk told him, delivering him what was, considering recent events, a relatively gentle kick.  “No two ways about it.  Our side lost.  You clear about that?”

Dargaz didn’t respond.

Shagrat kicked him much harder.  “’D’you  understand?”

Dargaz continued to whine, breathlessly, but his tone took on a slightly more affirmative register.  Curled in on himself on the ground, the little Orc was sobbing and shaking violently. 

Shagrat stared down at him, a bleak look in his eye.  The reaction, based on past experience, would probably get substantially worse before it stood much chance of getting any better.

“Melek,” he said softly.  “Take your mate and see if you can’t sort him out.  And mind and – one of you sit with him.  He’s not going to want to be left on his own for a bit.”

“So he’s off the hook?” Melek gasped, aghast.  “Just like that?”

Shagrat gave a single nod.  “Get him out of my sight.”  Grabbing Dargaz and dragging him with them, Melek and Burzurg hurried to comply.

“What, he’s not gonna be for the chop?” Azof was clearly disappointed.

“From now on, we’re going to be trying to keep the outbreaks of cannibalism down to an absolute minimum, all right?”

“Says ‘oo!”

“I do!” Shagrat yelled, into his face.  “It’s new rules!”

“But does ‘minimum’ mean ‘never at all’ or ‘just once in a way?” Azof persevered.  “Maybe we could ‘ave at it just on ‘olidays, an’ stuff like that?”

Running a critical eye over Azof’s bulky body, Shagrat considered this.  Biting his head off in a very literal sense would certainly solve one or two of their more current and pressing problems, it was true; but then again feasting on one of their own at this point might be seen as setting up an unfortunate sort of precedent.  

“...never,” he decided, finally.  “You mightn’t have noticed, but there aren’t that many of us left.”

Perhaps recognizing the possible precariousness of his own situation, Azof subsided.  “Just speakin’ ‘ypothetically, but what if we was to get new blood in?”

The other Uruk ignored him.  “Rukush, look, make yourself useful.” He jerked his head towards Melek and Burzurg, where they were having a hard time preventing Dargaz from jumping up and making a mad dash for it.  “Why don’t you just - just sit on the Lieutenant till he calms down.”

“’Ere,” Maz said, crouching down – not too close - beside the black knife.  Deep notches were appearing all along the sharpened edges and the earth around it was beginning to look scorched.  “But what we gonna do ‘bout _that_?”

“Bury it again?” Rukush suggested.

“What, an’ just leave it lying?” Azof scoffed, “waiting for the next weak-minded pillock who comes accidentally stumbling across it to get filled wiv’ some sudden an’ h’inexplicable desire to be the one ‘as gotta rule us all?  Yeah.  Brilliant.  ’Nother brilliant plan as usual, Rooks.”

“Earth an’ air an’ fire an’ water,” one of Melek’s archers suggested after a minute.  “I ‘eard how that’s the best what you can do against stuff what’s been enchanted by black magicks an’ witches.”

Maz considered this for a moment.  “Well, I s’pose it is _on_ the ground and _in_ the air already,” he said.  Scampering over to the smouldering fire the Orcs had built in the centre of the clearing, he selected a branch with an ember still glowing on one end.  He fanned it into flame again, scampered back and dropped it right on top of the knife. “There’s fire!  An’ now, I s’pose, as for water –“  at that he began loosening the fastenings at the top of his leggings. 

“Oh, Maz - you dirty little bleeder!” Azof groaned.  “Oh no, you ain’t!  Maz!  Put it back in your pants!”

A great cloud of (understandably) noxious-coloured steam rose as Maz’s stream spattered down onto the heated metal.  The amount of vapour increased substantially as Azof, quickly followed by Shagrat, joined in with him.

“Old time’s sake,” the Uruk explained, shifting uncomfortably.

“It’s the same as one ‘ad you, is it?”  Azof shrugged.  “Whatever.  I fink we all know ‘ow that story goes.” 

At length their work was finished.  “’Ere,” Maz snickered, examining the still-smouldering damp spot, “here!  Look – see?   See how we’ve pissed it right off!”

And they had: by luck or accident or just plain coincidence the dagger, hilt and blade and even the wrappings round its handle had indeed disintegrated, leaving only a blackened patch steaming gently on the grass.

Maz dusted his hands off, looking very pleased with himself.  “That’s taken care of.  So now wot?”

Shelter, then board and lodgings seemed the order of the day and once again, the Hobbit had something more than useful to contribute.

“I think,” Ludlow said, “I saw where there’s some caves over up top.”

 


	24. Definitions of home

 

 

“Shagrat.  _Shagrat_!  Wake up, Shagrat.”

“Gerrof.  Gerrit off.  Get _off_ me!”

The Orc came awake with a start, a frozen expression of horror on his face and his good eye staring wide.

“Sorry.”  Ludlow rocked back on his haunches, smiling wanly.  “It’s just you were – fussing, again.  In your sleep.”

“Your face is wet,” he added, looking away from him.

“Is it?” gasped Shagrat breathlessly, into the chilly air.  He swiped the back of his hand each side across the bridge of his nose, dashing drops of salt water away.  “Must just be ‘cause I’m – I’m sweating cobs in here.”

After a short hesitation, Ludlow picked up his pillow and blanket roll and scrambled towards him.  “Shift over a bit Shagrat,” he said, insinuating himself and his bedding in at one side of the relatively level space where his companion was lying.

**

After the excitement surrounding the impromptu exorcism of lieutenant Dargaz had worn off, the band of Orcs made their way up to the sandstone cliff Ludlow noted earlier, the base of which was undercut with a number of caves.  An unseemly scuffle for sleeping places in the driest and roomiest of them had followed, but the former Uruk Captain and his Halfling companion had secured (or commandeered) a prime location for themselves, in a sheltered spot overlooking the others near the top of the slope.  Ludlow had hastily built a fire near the entrance to the cave, had had time to warm water taken from a nearby mountain stream for a hot drink - and by then it was too dark for them to do anything but go to sleep.  Even the shouts and general levels of rowdiness from the rest of Shagrat’s compatriots, audible for much of the evening, had died down, meaning it must’ve been the wee small hours of the night.

They rested on their backs for an awkward moment, the Uruk, seemingly, having developed a sudden fixed and overwhelming interest in studying the rock strata and formations that hung above them on the ceiling of the cave.

All the while and quite unconsciously he was drawing his blanket further and further up, clutching it close around his chin.  Shagrat closed his good eye and sighed wearily.  Then he clapped one fumbling, heavy hand onto the Hobbit’s leg, positioning it awkwardly as he was absolutely refusing to look at him.  He stroked Ludlow’s leg a bit, and squeezed.

 Ludlow reared away, scuttling backwards as if he’d just made contact with an open box full of dangerous scorpions, or a venomous snake.

“What d’you think you’re playing at, Shagrat!” he cried, aghast.  “I’ve grown extremely – fond, of you.   I have!  But I’m not interested in you like that!  I just don’t think of you in that way!  At _all_!”

The Uruk sagged onto his back, putting trembling hands up to cover his face.  “Oh, thank goodness.  Thank goodness.  Thought for a minute I was going to have to -”

Ludlow sat up straight.   “You didn’t even want to?”

Shagrat shook his head vehemently.  “I mean I - like you and everything, but it’s not like that.  It’s not.”

 “Then why on earth  -?”

The Orc shrugged, still hiding his face.  “Thought you must be making a pass at me.  Why else would you want to climb right into my bed?”

“This?  It’s not even a bed!”  the Hobbit spluttered, pink-faced with indignation.   “You’re not supposed to just go to sleep in whatever crevice on the floor you happen to fall into!  That’s just not the way these things are done.”

“I barely even used to sleep,” the Uruk protested, “much less need a bed to do it with!”

“Well then, we’ll be getting you a new one, first thing!”  Ludlow said decisively.   “A heather bed, maybe.  I saw simply _swathes_ of moorland when we were on our way up here and there’s bound to be someone round these parts who’ll be more than happy to show us how to make one.”  He considered Shagrat’s bewildered / craggy / horrifying-looking features briefly and then seemed to subside.  “On the other hand, how hard can it be?  Perhaps, given time, we’ll be able to figure it out.”  

“I’m not sure I really need –“

“We’ll say no more about it!” Ludlow exclaimed.  “Come on Shagrat,” he went on, trying for a conciliatory tone, “And, while we’re on the subject, I’d also get the benefit, because I’ve never really been one for roughing it.  Don’t know about you, but I’d certainly welcome a spell of not sleeping on the floor.”

The Orc thought this over for a minute, his brow creasing visibly.  “So you’re – you’re planning on being in this bed with me, are you?”

“Well of course!  Whyever not?”

Shagrat stared at him.  “Won’t people will think it’s weird?”

“These Gondor types do seem to have some funny ideas,” the Hobbit acknowledged reluctantly, “but between you and me - back home _everybody_ does it.  In most houses, the main bedroom’s just one big bed.  Wall-to-wall mattress, and unless it gets really hot in summer, everyone just piles in on it.”

 “No hanky-panky?”

“I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but as a people we don’t tend to be terribly – “

Shagrat nodded.  “Into all that kinky stuff?”

“I was going to say ‘highly sexed,“ Ludlow conceded.  “So, no.  No hanky-panky.   Or at least – you know.  Maybe just the bare minimum of it, if the time’s right and in an absolutely appropriate setting.  Most nights everyone just likes to sleep together in one big heap.”

They lay together in silence for a while.  The little fire Ludlow had built earlier had burned down to embers now and cast only a faintly red and orange glow.  His companion was quiet but not sleeping; through the shadows Ludlow could just make out the faint shine and sweep, and shine and sweep as Shagrat blinked manky lashes over his one remaining eye.

“What happened between you and Dargaz today, Shagrat?” the Hobbit said.

The Orc shook his head absently.  “Eh?”

Ludlow gestured to the Uruk’s left wrist which he was favouring slightly, where he’d placed it – very carefully - on top of filthy blanket down by his side.  “I mean this afternoon.  When you hurt your hand.”

Shagrat shrugged.  “What about it?”

“I’ve seen you in trouble,” Ludlow said.  “My goodness Shagrat.  Somehow you seem to land yourself in trouble more often than you’re out of it!  And I’ve seen you at death’s door.  Everything’s always so – so stacked against you, but you never seemed bothered that you don’t even have a proper fighting chance.”

“Impresses you, does it?  Laughing in the face of death and all that malarkey?  Well you have to, don’t you?  Gotta front it out because sometimes it’s the only thing you _can_ do.  That’s not saying it means much.”

Ludlow persevered.  “And then this afternoon with Dargaz.  That thing with the knife happened, and the look on your face –“

The Uruk rounded on him then, snarling.  “What about my face?  Didn’t I just tell you to leave it?  So how about you try minding your own business, eh?  ‘Cause you know nothing about it!  Nothing at all!”

“I don’t pretend to know everything about you,” the Hobbit went on, reasonably, “but I can’t help but wonder if what happened today has to do with whatever it is you scream about, sometimes, at night.  The look on your face, you see, was just the same as how you sound when you’re yelling for help in your sleep and -”

“And how’s that?”

“...absolutely terrified, Shagrat.  And that isn’t like you, at all.  So that’s – well, that’s what I think I know about it.”

“Been being a bit noisy at night, have I?”  The Uruk’s lips pulled back into a toothy, mirthless grin.  “I wish you’d said.  There I was thinking I’d been keeping nice and schtum.”

“Nobody-“ Ludlow broke off.  “No-one ever did come and get you, did they?”

Shagrat sat up and hugged his knees, staring into the dying fire.  He shook his head.  “Nah.  Well they wouldn’t, would they, seeing how it was part of my punishment, after he – after Faramir – left.  The thing is I let him leave, really, because of how I – felt.”  Shagrat raised his good eye to meet Ludlow’s gaze.  “I suppose it sounds daft to you, coming from someone like me.  But even with – all what happened after, and that - I reckon it would’ve still been worth it, just to be able to think of him being safe.  Just to know one of us had got away, free.”

“But what about you?  You don’t seem to have managed to get away with anything!”

“Well!  I was completely shafted already wasn’t I?” the Orc said briskly.  “Right from the off - from long before I ever met him.  So it was just - more of the same, really.  Couldn’t’ve made much difference to me.”

“Even though you had to stay behind and pay for it?  Shagrat, you’ve been paying for it ever since!  All these years!”

“It’s not nearly so bad as you seem to think,” Shagrat muttered, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head.  “I was a right Mr Confused for ever so long afterwards.  Messed up,” he tapped his forehead significantly – “you know, upstairs?  So for a long time I didn’t even remember a lot of it, not properly.  It was seeing him again.  Then that thing with Dargaz.  That’s what’s dragged up a lot of it.”

“And does he know about this,” Ludlow sniffed, “your so-called marvellous boyfriend?”

“I don’t know about ‘boyfriend’ – “

“You told me he told you he’d visit!”

“He says all sorts of things,” Shagrat sighed.  “I know he means well – he does!  But I’ll believe it when I see it, if you get my drift.  Once he’s had a chance to think it over again I doubt he’ll find time to be stopping in to see me anytime soon.”

They sat for a while without speaking, the Hobbit obviously bristling with righteous indignation on Shagrat’s behalf.

This time Shagrat was first to break the silence between them.  “Forget what I said about that stuff in Mordor, eh?”  he said, clearing his throat.  “Let’s talk about something else.  All for the best.”

“If you say so, Shagrat.” the Hobbit blinked back at him owlishly.  “Because trying to forget about stuff’s’ clearly working for you quite admirably –“

“So,” the Uruk broke in, a little desperately, “do you - d’you reckon she’ll be dropping her sprogs anytime soon?  I know they don’t usually do it till the spring.  But this one, I think she’s always been a bit – off.  And look at the size of her!  Look.”

Once again Shagrat’s Warg had been successfully tracked them through the mountains.  After rejoining their group late the previous evening it had been quick to assume what it obviously considered to be its rightful position, a sleeping spot by the fire in Shagrat and Ludlow’s cave.

“Sprogs?”  Ludlow repeated vaguely.

“Whelping the pups.”  Shagrat jerked his head towards the scurfy, spotted animal, which had sidled in on the other side of the hollow the Uruk was lying in.  It rolled onto its back, exposing its rotund belly, obviously inviting Shagrat to give it a good scratch.  “Giving birth,” he said.  “You know.”

“I most certainly don’t know!”

“You can’t’ve not noticed!  The way she’s filled out lately.”

Actually Ludlow had noticed, for the Warg’s girth around the middle had increased to such an extent that now it seemed more than double the size it had been compared with the day he’d first seen it.

 “I thought it had worms!  That he needed a good dose of worming treatment, that’s all!”

“Nope.  See the teats?  Milk’s starting to come in, too.  If you look close you can see where she’s starting a sort of an udder -”

The Hobbit cut him off, shivering slightly.  “How can that even be possible?”

Shagrat humphed and puffed – messed about with the fire and then looked studiously up at the rocky ceiling, looking anywhere at all, in fact, except directly at the shocked, bewildered face of the Hobbit.  At length he embarked upon a mumbled, non-specific discourse concerning the facts of life in general, which, for all its excruciatingly vague and tongue-tied delivery promised to pay special reference at some later point to all of Warg-kind -  

“No,” Ludlow interrupted, cutting him off, mercifully short.  “The birds and the bees.  Yes, thank you: I’m quite aware of that already.  What I mean is obviously, one doesn’t like to look, but - things being as they are, it’s just not something it’s been possible for me to – avoid noticing.”

The Uruk just stared at him.  “Eh?”

Ludlow was blushing furiously.   He gestured towards the Warg, which was still rolling on its back waving all four of its legs in the air - and coincidentally also putting clear on display the root cause of Ludlow’s confusion.

“Shagrat, my dear fellow,” he said gently.  “Your dog’s a fine enough specimen; no doubt about it.  But you must be mistaken.  Surely there can be no room for confusion because it’s male -  I mean, just look at it!  That thing – _there_ ” – he pointed straight at the gently waggling organ – “it’s clearly a todger.”

“Eh?” the Orc repeated, seeming for a moment to genuinely be mystified.  “Oh!  Oh yeah.  No – they’ve all got that.  Looks like one but it isn’t.  Dunno why they have that –“

“…particular appendage?”

“Fake cock.  Dunno what it’s for but it seems important, ‘cause they’ve all got one.”

“You mean the dogs, and the – girl dogs, too?”

“Let’s just say from what I’ve heard it’s not exactly a barrel of laughs when they come to push the pups out.”

“The pups don’t come out through – oh!  My goodness!  I can imagine,” Ludlow said faintly.

“Couldn’t you tell?  Really?”

Ludlow sniffed.  “I thought it was a perfectly reasonable assumption, based on appearances.  But no. I honestly couldn’t tell!  How did _you_ know?”

Shagrat drew a long breath in through his nose, shrugging.

The Uruk regarded him sidelong for a time.  “You know,” he began, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this either, but that Melek’s a fine-looking girl.”

Ludlow jaw actually dropped.  “Melek’s a –“

Shagrat smiled to himself, as if he’d just had something he’d been wondering about confirmed.

“Are you quite sure?” Ludlow began.  “Melek doesn’t seem to have an awful lot in the way of –“ he broke off, gesturing  vaguely, his hands held out in front of him.

“Teats?”

The Hobbit snatched his arms back to his sides then folded them.  “That’s certainly _not_ what I was going to say!  I was thinking about her - her womanly attributes, in a purely abstract sense.”

“I think you’ll find her armour’s prob’ly squashing most of her ‘womanly attributes’ flat.  But if you were to go looking, I should think you’d find something under there.  If you wanted to put things abstractly.”

“Oh, but we’ve only just met!”  Ludlow protested, pink-cheeked with a combination of embarrassment and pleasure.  “I’m sure a nice girl like Melek would never – well!   I’d certainly welcome the chance for us to get to know one other better.  That would have to happen before there was any consideration of anything like that.”

They sat for a minute, Ludlow staring dreamily off into space.

“So!” he said, collecting himself at length, “I expect it’ll be – nice for you then, won’t it?  Hearing the patter of tiny Warg feet?”

“I suppose,” Shagrat nodded.  “Hadn’t really thought about it.  But it seems right, doesn’t it?  Orcs and Wargs - on account of we sort of - go together, don’t we?  You know what I mean – like two things that’ve always been a good fit.”

Ludlow nodded.  “I don’t know – maybe - pie and gravy?  Or fish and chips?”

“I was going to say ‘flies on shit.’”

The Hobbit grimaced.  “It’s maybe not the comparison I would’ve chosen _myself_ -”

“No?   But who wants an Orc – or a Warg - hanging round?  You chuck ‘em out and chase ‘em off, don’t you?   Gotta get rid quick.  So yeah - flies and shit.  Way it’s always been, is’nit?”

“Even in Mordor?”

“Well that was different,” the Orc replied.  “Even if sometimes, I used to wonder what it’d be like to be let off the leash for a bit.  Not often, and never out loud of course – no way of knowing which ones were on the big bosses’ ‘special payroll’ and there were spies everywhere, back in the day.  Later they tightened up the loopholes so even thinking about anything like that – making a break for it, you know - setting up on your own, was enough to land you in proper hot water if you were caught.”

Ludlow stared at him.  “Your superiors can’t have been able to tell what you were _thinking_?”

“Oh, well not all the time – I mean they didn’t bother listening in on every little thing.  But that sort of stuff – making a break for it?  Treason?  Oh, yeah.  They’d ways of picking that up straight out your head.  That’s why – aside from that thing with Goldilocks, I almost never stepped out of line.  It was obvious from the off things weren’t ever going to change.  No point in hoping for anything different.  Gotta just grit your teeth and get on with it. That’s what everyone did.”

“But there’s no big bosses here, Shagrat.  It’s just you and the others now.  And this hillside and all the mountain over - it’s yours now, isn’t it?  Your new home.”

“Home!” the Uruk exclaimed, looking honestly gobsmacked as he considered what Ludlow had said.  “Well - I suppose it could be, couldn’t it?  That’s another thing I hadn’t gotten round to thinking about.  Never had one of _those_ before.”

“No?  What about that tower in Mordor we’ve all heard so much about?”

 Shagrat shook his head.   “Nah.  That was just a place to doss down and keep some of my stuff.”  He gave a derisive snort.  “Don’t think it counts as a proper home if you’re never allowed to leave.”  

“What would you call it, then?”

“Home?  I’ve no idea,” the Orc said.  “You?”

“It’s maybe – where you’ve come from?  Or - I’m not sure.  That you want to be heading back to?”

Shagrat looked at him sidelong.  “And d’you – you know, think about going home again?  Back to that Shire of yours?”

“I dream about it sometimes,” Ludlow said slowly.  “Walking in the woods on an autumn night.  Seeing the fields in summer - and the little rivers, the pretty hills.”  He broke off and shook himself.  “But, with any luck, that’ll never come true.  Roads are made for travelling on and bags are made to pack.  That’s how the song goes, isn’t it?  And I haven’t seen nearly enough of anything to want to go home as yet.  Can’t imagine I ever will have done, if it comes to it.”

“You know,” he went on, “you mightn’t’ve realized, but I’m not exactly a typical Hobbit.  We’re fairly sedentary folk as a rule.  Some people say we’re overly fond of our home comforts, and we don’t tend to go in for adventures, or tramping through the wilderness very much at all.”

Shagrat grinned.  “Same go for sleeping in caves and throwing in your lot with a load of Orcs?”

“Needless to say, yes!  I suppose I’ve always been considered a bit of an odd-ball for it really.  Nobody ever said anything to my face but I know they all thought I was like your Warg – that something was a little bit off.  I never quite felt - you know, like I was properly at home, back home.”

“And what about now. Camped half-way up a mountain with our lot.  You feel at home here, do you?”

“Well, it’s early days.  But oddly enough – yes.  I think I might.”

By now Shagrat already knew much better than to hope for, or to count on anything, so to his ears his next question, which he blurted out much too quickly, also sounded far more hopeful than he would’ve liked.  “So,” he heard himself say, “so, then.  Is that your way of saying you’re thinking you might want to stay?”

The Hobbit turned to him with one of his broad, kind smiles.  “If you’d like me to Shagrat.  Yes.  All right.”


	25. Going to be trouble

 

Orcs were late risers, or so it seemed.   It was long after sunrise the next day when Ludlow left Shagrat, still snoozing in his bed, and made his way out of their cave.  Out he went into an overcast morning, where he found that he was the only person in the Orc’s make-shift encampment who was already up and about. 

Looking around he spied a gnarly-trunked crab-apple tree overhanging the edge of the nearest cliff.  It was stunted by the winter wind and its roots were clinging tenuously to the bare rock but its trunk was sturdy, and it was still growing strong.  Ludlow saw still hanging from its leafless branches a quantity of small, yellow fruit.  The little apples were waterlogged and pulpy, softened by frost and the Hobbit made a face at the first sour taste, but they were a step-up from having no breakfast at all.  He swung up into the branches of the tree and began filling his pockets full.

 Ludlow sniffed the damp air.  They were high in the mountains and there were still patches of old snow all around, but the south-westerly breeze that was blowing up from the valley held a hint of a thaw and perhaps better weather to come.

On one side of him the mountains fell away in a long sweep down towards the plain of Gondor, hazy in the grey distance, and on the other climbed up towards a series of even higher peaks that stood in a long, jagged line all along the horizon.  At length Ludlow’s attention was drawn by a speck of movement far, far away, a long way down the hill on the Gondorian side.

His eyes narrowed as he recognized the fair-haired figure, shoulders shrouded in a green cape who was approaching, zig-zagging his way up the slope astride a large white horse.

When he was still some way off, the keen-eyed incomer noticed the Hobbit up in his perch.  He raised one hand, waving a salute.

Ludlow didn’t return it.  He scrambled down from the tree, glaring in the rider’s general direction and gave him a long, hard, stare, keeping his arms folded up against his chest.

Down in the valley Faramir’s stance shifted uncertainly.  He let his arm drop back down by his side.

Maintaining his aggressive, no-nonsense midget stance a while longer, just to make his point, Ludlow turned on his heel, huffing his disapproval and hurried back towards the cave that he and Shagrat were sharing.  Inside, the Uruk was still lying where he’d been sleeping, curled on his side.  The Hobbit’s bedroll was at his back and one of his arms was flung over the gently slumbering, slobbering Warg, which had squashed itself tight up against his front.

Ludlow’s expression softened fondly as he regarded the malodorous pair.  As he watched them Shagrat cracked open a bleary, slightly crusted yellow eye.

“Better get up!”Ludlow told him, bending down to shake him properly awake.  “Up, and make yourself decent, Shagrat!  Your boyfriend’s back!”

 

THE END

 

 

 


End file.
